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SELECTIONS 



FROM 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 



BY 



WASHINGTON IRVING 




AMERICAN • BOOK • COMPANY 
NEW YORK- CINCINNATI • CHICAGO 




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Book._ • A.2lA£ 

Copyright N° 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




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ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 



SELECTIONS 



FROM 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 



BY / 

v 

WASHINGTON IRVING 



"Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all." 

Chaucer. 



NEW YORK •:• CINCINNATI •:• CHICAGO 

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Cohic» Received 

SEP. 10 1901 

Copyright entr/ 

kSS «C> XXc 

COPY S. 



Jo 1 * 



Copyright, 1892 and 1901, by 
American Book Company. 



Irv.'s Sk-Bk. 

w. p. 14 



Published by permission of Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, the 
publishers of the complete and authorized editions of Irviitg's works. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Washington Irving, the eighth and youngest son of William 
and Sarah Irving, was born in a house on William Street, in New 
York City, April 3, 1783. His father was a descendant of an 
old Orkney family, and his mother was a native of Falmouth, 
England. Young Washington began his school days at the age 
of four. At the age of sixteen his school days were over, and 
he began the study of law. Though his education was of a 
rudimentary and incomplete character, consisting of a smatter- 
ing of Latin, music, and the ordinary English branches, he gave 
early signs of a natural avidity for reading, and of a power of rap- 
idly assimilating what he read. Sinbad, Robinson Crusoe, and 
Gulliver made a deep impression on his young mind. His 
early fondness for romance showed itself in many ways, and the 
theater in John Street possessed for him a seductive charm, to 
which he succumbed as often as he could steal away from home ; 
for his father, of the stern ways and habits of the Scotch Cove- 
nanter, looked upon theaters with hearty disfavor. In 1802 he 
entered the law office of Josiah Ogden Hoffman, and, together 
with his " Blackstone," he read general literature voraciously. 
About this time his health began to fail, and he made frequent 
trips up the Hudson and the Mohawk, to Ogdensburg, Montreal, 
Albany, Schenectady, and Saratoga. While in Judge Hoffman's 

3 



4 INTRODUCTION. 

office, he offset the tedium of his studies by writing, over the 
name of " Jonathan Oldstyle," a series of papers for the " Morn- 
ing Chronicle," a newspaper planned on the style of the " Spec- 
tator " and " Tatler." His health continuing poor, in May he 
went to Europe, spent six weeks in Bordeaux, studying the lan- 
guage, seeing life, and enlarging the scope of his powers of obser- 
vation. Then he visited the Mediterranean, gathering more ma- 
terial, seeing new cities, studying the strong characters he met. 
Sicily, Genoa, Naples, Rome, came beneath his eye, and he saw 
Nelson's fleet spreading its sails for Trafalgar. At Rome a criti- 
cal epoch in his life occurred. The atmosphere of music, of 
which he was passionately fond, of art, and especially painting, 
all tended to work powerfully on the artistic side of his nature, 
and appealed strongly to the poetic temperament, that, in spite 
of his keen sense of humor, was deep within him. At this time, 
and in this atmosphere, he met Washington Allston, the artist, 
and was almost persuaded by him to take up art ; but Irving, 
convinced that his inclination was more the effect of his present 
suiToundings than of a deep latent artistic power within himself, 
refrained, and continued his journey, seeking new faces and new 
scenes. Irving was essentially a traveler. He saw at a glance 
all those peculiarities and oddities of form and character that at- 
tract and amuse ; and he had a happy way of putting up with in- 
conveniences, getting the best out of everything that came before 
his notice, and entering thoroughly into the spirit of his surround- 
ings. Switzerland, the Netherlands, Paris, London, were in turn 
visited. In London he saw John Kemble, Cooke, and Mrs. Sid- 
dons. In February, 1806, he returned to this country, and was 
admitted to the bar, but he never practiced law. He soon en- 
gaged, with his brother William and James K. Paulding, in the 



INTRODUCTION. 5 

issue (1807) of a humorously satirical semi-monthly periodical 
called " Salmagundi, or the Whim- Whams and Opinions of Laun- 
celot Langstaff, Esq., and Others." It was quite successful in its 
local hits, and in it Irving first awoke to a conception of his 
power. In 1809 appeared the droll "History of New York by 
Diedrich Knickerbocker. From the Beginning of the World to 
the End of the Dutch Dynasty." It won for its author instant 
fame. The book was cleverly advertised before it appeared, the 
newspapers containing descriptions of a gentleman named Died- 
rich Knickerbocker, who was said to have mysteriously disap- 
peared without paying his board bill, but leaving behind him a 
curious manuscript which his creditor was about to publish. Jus'' 
before the book was completed, Irving underwent the great an- 
guish of his life. The second daughter of Judge Hoffman, Ma- 
tilda, with whom he was in love, died in her eighteenth year. 
He remained true to her memory, and never married. The 
" Knickerbocker Histoiy " was highly praised by Scott, who rec- 
ognized its merit, and detected in it strong resemblances to the 
style of Swift. The work was begun by Washington and his 
brother Peter as a travesty on Dr. Samuel Mitchell's " Handbook 
of New York;" but Peter sailed for Europe when five chapters 
only were completed, and left Washington to finish the work. 
The next year (1810) Washington became a silent partner, with 
a fifth interest, in the commercial house established in New York 
and Liverpool by his brothers, and (1813-14) was editorially 
connected with the "Analectic Magazine" of Philadelphia, and 
contributed a number of biographical sketches of American naval 
commanders. In 18 14 he served four months as aide-de-camp 
and military secretary to Gov. Tompkins, and in 181 5 sailed 
again for Europe. About this time financial troubles began to 



6 INTRODUCTION. 

gather over the business house ; and Washington, on arriving in 
England, found his brother Peter ill, and thus considerable work 
of a commercial nature devolved upon him. Yet in the midst of 
business cares he found time for quiet rovings through Warwick- 
shire and other parts of England, gathering material for " The 
Sketch-Book, " and mingling in society with the literary men of 
the time. But the business troubles of the house increased, and 
1816 and 181 7 were anxious years. It was in the latter year 
that he met Scott in his home at Abbotsford, and felt the charm 
of his family circle. In 18 18 the house went into bankruptcy. 
Irving, declining a clerkship in the Navy Department, and defer- 
ring an editorship which Scott held out to him, preferred to fol- 
low his own literary pursuits, and brought out "The Sketch- 
Book" (181 9) in America. It was unqualifiedly successful ; and 
Irving, who had heretofore been held as the ornamental feature 
of the family, became its financial stay, graciously returning the 
kind favors of earlier days. Irving offered " The Sketch-Book " 
to Murray & Constable for republication ; but they declined it, 
in spite of Scott's recommendation. Irving then started to pub- 
lish it himself, but, his publisher failing, its issue was stopped. 
Scott induced Murray to buy it for two hundred pounds, which 
was doubled on the success of the book. In 1820 Irving was in 
Paris, and in 182 1 wrote " Bracebridge Hall," bringing it out in 

1822. This year he was in Dresden. He returned to Paris in 

1823, and the next year brought out "Tales of a Traveller." It 
was severely criticised. The year 1826 found him in Madrid as 
attache of the legation commissioned by A. H. Everett, United 
States minister to Spain, to translate various documents relating 
to Columbus, collected by Navarrete ; and from this work Irving 
produced (1828) the " History of the Life and Voyages of Chris- 



INTRODUCTION. 7 

topher Columbus." For it he got three thousand guineas, and 
the fifty-guinea medal offered by George IV. for historical com- 
position. A pleasant sojourn in the south of Spain gave him 
further insight into Spanish lore, and in 1829 the " Chronicles of 
the Conquest of Granada " was given to the public. In the quiet 
seclusion of the Alhambra, the same year, he wove a portion of 
that graceful fabric which he gave the world in 1832. While in 
the Alhambra he received word of his appointment as secretary 
to the legation at London, and, reluctantly accepting it, returned 
there. In 1831 appeared his "Companions of Columbus," and 
the same year he received from Oxford the degree of LL.D. The 
next year he returned to New York, after a foreign sojourn of 
seventeen years, and was welcomed with tremendous enthusiasm. 
He bought Sunnyside, below Tarrytown on the Hudson, and 
prepared to settle quietly down to literary work ; but the restless 
spirit of travel he had imbibed abroad induced him to take a fly- 
ing trip through the West before doing so, and the summer of 
the same year found him with Commissioner Ellsworth, interested 
in the removal of the Indian tribes across the Mississippi. The 
literary outcome of this digression was the " Tour on the Prai- 
ries," which came out in 1835. With it came also " Abbotsford " 
and " Newstead Abbey," and the " Legends of the Conquest of 
Spain," making up the "Crayon Miscellany." In 1836 came 
"Astoria;" and from 1839 to T 84-i he contributed articles for the 
" Knickerbocker Magazine," which were afterward gathered into 
"Wolfert's Roost" (1855). From 1842 to 1846 Irving was 
United States minister to Spain. Returning to his home, he 
spent the remaining years of his life at Sunnyside, engaged in lit- 
erary work, chiefly the "Life of Mahomet" and the "Life of 
Washington." The final volume of this last was completed only 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

three months before he died. He passed away at Sunnyside, 
Nov. 28, 1859. 

Washington Irving was the first American who was admitted 
by Englishmen on equal terms into the great republic of letters. 
By him American literature was enriched in form and elegance, 
and its scope enlarged. He opened the treasure-house of Span- 
ish history and romance, and gave an impulse to historical and 
biographical research. As an historian and biographer, his con- 
clusions were carefully drawn, and just, and have stood the test 
of time. 

Possessed of a broad and genial nature, a rich poetic tempera- 
ment, a fancy that was as nimble as it was sprightly, a facile and 
ornate power of vivid and graphic description, and a pure and 
graceful style that rivals that of Addison, he was the very prince 
of story-tellers and the most fascinating of fireside companions. 
His delicacy of touch was equal to the task of adding beauty to 
the exquisite tracery of the Alhambra, and his refined imagina- 
tion revivified the romantic legends of Granada, while his genial 
humor created a cherished ancestry for his native city. With 
such inimitable drollery did he place in succession upon his can- 
vas the Dutch forefathers of New Amsterdam, that Diedrich 
Knickerbocker, fleeing through the dormer-windowed streets of 
New York, left behind him the legacy of a name as real and as 
enduring as that of Peter Stuyvesant. 

Yet it is in " The Sketch-Book," perhaps, more than in any 
other of his works, that the qualities of style and mind which 
have so characterized Washington Irving, and endeared him to 
English-reading people, appear in their freshest, most varied 
form, covering a wider range of humanity, bubbling over with a 
humor that seems to have the inexhaustible spontaneity of a 



INTRODUCTION. 9 

spring. Here drollery, grace, pathos, grandeur, in turn touch the 
heart and move the fancy. A broad, genial atmosphere per- 
vades it, fresh and open as the blue sky, in which its characters 
live, move, and have their being, drawn with a portraiture as real 
as life, and with a gentle satire that has no trace of bitterness. 

It is " The Sketch- Book " that affords such charming glimpses 
of the good old English Christmas, and such graceful reflections, 
under the shadow of the venerable Abbey ; while with its tatter- 
demalion Rip Van Winkle, and its soft but timid-hearted peda- 
gogue Ichabod Crane, it is " The Sketch-Book " which has given 
to our noble Hudson the weird witchery of legend, charming as 
the blue outline of the Catskills, and fascinating as the shades of 
Sleepy Hollow. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Author's Account of Himself . . . . .13 

The Voyage 16 

Christmas 23 

The Stagecoach 30 

Christmas Eve . 37 

Christmas Day 50 

Christmas Dinner . . 66 

Westminster Abbey Co 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 94 

Rip Van Winkle 130 

The Wife 149 

The Art of Book-Making 157 

Stratford-on-Avon 165 

The Mutability of Literature 185 

t 



11 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

" / am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her 
shelwas turned eftsoones 1 into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole 
to sit on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short 
time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his man- 
sion with his manners, and to live where he can, not -where he would." 

Lyly's Euphues.2 

I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing 
strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I 
began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign 
parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent 
alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town-crier. As 
I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. 
My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles about the surround- 
ing country. I made myself familiar with all its places famous 
in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or rob- 
bery had been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neigh- 
boring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge by 
noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages 
and great men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the 

1 Speedily; at once. 

2 John Lyly, Lylie, Lyllie, or Lilly ( 1 553 -1609) was an English wit and 
writer of Shakespeare's time. He wrote several plays, but is best known 
from his novel Euphues, the style of which was intended to reform and purify 
that of the English language. This book immediately became the rage in the 
court circles, and for many years was the court standard. 

13 



14 IRVING. 

summit of the most distant hill, from whence I stretched my eye 
over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find 
how vast a globe I inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books 
of voyages and travels became my passion ; and, in devouring 
their contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. 
How wistfully would I wander about the pier-heads in fine 
weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant climes! 
With what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, 
and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the earth! 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague 
inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it 
more decided. I visited various parts of my own country; and, 
had I been merely influenced by a love of fine scenery, I should 
have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, for on no 
country have the charms of Nature been more prodigally lavished. 
Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with 
their bright aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; 
her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes ; her 
boundless plains, waving with spontaneous venture ; her broad, 
deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean ; her track- 
less forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence ; her 
skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious 
sunshine, — no, never need an American look beyond his own 
country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poetical 
association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the re- 
finements of highly cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of 
ancient and local custom. My native country was full of youth- 
ful promise : Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. 
Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every mold- 
ering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes 
of renowned achievement ; to tread, as it were, in the footsteps 
of antiquity ; to loiter about the ruined castle ; to meditate on 
the falling tower; to escape, in short, from the commonplace 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 15 

realities of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy 
grandeurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great men 
of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America : not 
a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled among 
them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade into 
which they cast me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a small 
man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great man of a 
city. But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe ; for I 
had read in the works of various philosophers, that all animals 
degenerated in America, and man among the number. A great 
man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a 
great man of America as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the 
Hudson; and in this idea I was confirmed by observing the 
comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many English 
travelers among us, who, I was assured, were very little people 
in their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, thought 
I, and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving pas- 
sion gratified. I have wandered through different countries, and 
witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that 
I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but rather 
with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the pictur- 
esque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another; 
caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by 
the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of 
landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pen- 
cil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, 
I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my 
friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memoran- 
dums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails 
me at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the great 
objects studied by every regular traveler who would make a 
book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky 
landscape painter, who had traveled on the Continent, but, follow- 



<6 IRVING. 

ing the bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks 
and corners and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly- 
crowded with cottages and landscapes and obscure ruins ; but he 
had neglected to paint St. Peter's x or the Colosseum, 2 the cas- 
cade of Terni 3 or the Bay of Naples, 4 and had not a single gla- 
cier or volcano in his whole collection. 



THE VOYAGE. 

"Ships, skips, I will descrie you 
Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting, 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming ho7ne with rich and wealthy lading, 
Hallo / my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? " 

Old Poem. 

TO an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to 
make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence 
of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind pe- 
culiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast 
space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank 

1 The Church of St. Peter in Rome is built upon the site of the religious 
edifice erected in the time of Constantine (306), and consecrated as the " Ba- 
silica of St. Peter." 

2 A vast amphitheater in Rome, begun by the Emperor Vespasian, A. D. 72, 
and dedicated A.D. 80. For nearly five hundred years it was the popular 
resort of Rome. In the year 555 the whole of the city was overflowed by the 
Tiber, and the lower part of the Colosseum was then destroyed. 

3 A town of Italy in the province of Perugia, noted for the Falls of Velino, 
which, for volume and beauty, take a very high place among European 
waterfalls. 

4 No other place in the world combines within the same compass so much 
natural beauty with so many objects of interest to the antiquary, the historian, . 
and the geologist, as the Bay of Naples. * 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 17 

page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by which, as 
in Europe, the features and population of one country blend 
almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment 
you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you 
step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the 
bustle and novelties of another world. 

In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a con- 
nected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the 
story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. 
We drag, it is true, "a lengthening chain" 1 at each remove of 
our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it back 
link by link ; and we feel that the last of them still grapples us to 
home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us 
conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled 
life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, 
not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes, — a 
gulf subject to tempest and fear and uncertainty, that makes dis- 
tance palpable, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last 
blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, 
it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its con- 
cerns, and had time for meditation before I opened another. 
That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all 
that was most dear to me in life, — what vicissitudes might occur 
in it, what changes might take place in me, before I should visit 
it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he 
may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence, or when he 
may return, or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes 
of his childhood? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy. I should correct the expres- 

1 Goldsmith's Traveller, line 10. Better explained in the first paragraph 
of his third letter in Citizen of the World; i.e., " The farther I travel I feel 
the pain of separation with stronger force : those ties that bind me to my na- 
tive country and you, are still unbroken. By every move I only drag a 
greater length of chain,'' 



1 8 IRVING. 

sion. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself 
in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but 
then they are the wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather 
tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to 
loll over the quarter railing, or climb to the maintop, of a calm 
day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a sum- 
mer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering 
above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people 
them with a creation of my own ; to watch the gentle, undulat- 
ing billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those 
happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe 
with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the mon- 
sters of the deep at their uncouth gambols, — shoals of porpoises, 
tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus, slowly heaving 
his huge form above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, 
like a specter, through the blue waters. My imagination would 
conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world be- 
neath me, — of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys, 
of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations 
of the earth, and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of 
fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, 
would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting 
this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of 
existence! What a glorious monument of human invention, that 
has thus triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends 
of the world into communion ; has established an interchange of 
blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the lux- 
uries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge and the 
charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those scat- 
tered portions of the human race between which Nature seemed 
to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a dis- 
tance. At sea everything that breaks the monotony of the sur- 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 19 

rounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast 
of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there 
were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew 
had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being 
washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the 
name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evi- 
dently drifted about for many months. Clusters of shell-fish had 
fastened about it, and long seaweeds flaunted at its sides. But 
where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been 
over ; they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest ; 
their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Si- 
lence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no 
one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted 
after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside 
of home! How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, 
pored over the daily news to catch some casual intelligence of 
this rover of the deep! How has expectation darkened into 
anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair! Alas! not 
one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All that shall 
ever be known, is that she sailed from her port, " and was never 
heard of more." 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal 
anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when 
the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild 
and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden 
storms that will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a sum- 
mer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the 
cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale 
of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short 
one related by the captain. 

"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout ship across 
the Banks of Newfoundland, 1 one of those heavy fogs that pre- 
vail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead 

1 The shoals to the southeast of the Island of Newfoundland, a great re- 
sort for fishermen. 



20 IRVMG. 

even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that 
we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the 
ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch for- 
ward to look out for fishing-smacks, which are accustomed to lie 
at anchor on the Banks. The wind was blowing a smacking 
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. 
Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of 'A sail ahead!' It was 
scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small 
schooner, at anchor, with her broadside toward us. The crew 
were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck 
her just amidships. The force, the size, and weight of our vessel 
bore her down below the waves. We passed over her, and were 
hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking be- 
neath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches 
rushing from her cabin. They just started from their beds, to be 
swallowed, shrieking, by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept 
us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that cry. It 
was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under 
such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to 
the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for 
several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and lis- 
tened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors ; but all was 
silent. We never saw or heard anything of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine 
fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was 
lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen 
sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto 
deep. At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed 
rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered along the 
foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terri- 
ble. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and 
were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw 
the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it 
seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 21 

her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water. Her bow 
was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impend- 
ing surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a 
dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. 
The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like fune- 
real wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and 
groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, 
were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the side of 
the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were 
raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey. The 
mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him 
entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, 
soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to 
resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at 
sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail 
swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, 
how gallant, she appears! How she seems to lord it over the 
deep! I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, 
— for with me it is almost a continual reverie, — but it is time to 
get to shore. 

It was a fine, sunny morning when the thrilling cry of " Land! " 
was given from the mast-head. None but those who have expe- 
rienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations 
which rush into an American's bosom when he first comes in 
sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very 
name. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of 
which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years 
have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish 
excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants 
along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into 
the Channel ; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds, — 
all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mer- 



IRVING. 



.- 



sey, 1 I reconnoitered the shores with a telescope. My eye 
with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and 
green grass plots. I saw the moldering ruin of an abbey overrun 
with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the 
brow of a neighboring hill. All were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled 
to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people, — 
some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or rela- 
tives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was 
consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. 
His hands were thrust into his pockets. He was whistling 
thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been 
accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary im- 
portance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations inter- 
changed between the shore and the ship as friends happened to 
recognize each other. I particularly noticed one young woman 
bt humble dress but interesting demeanor. She was leaning for- 
ward from among the crowd. Her eye hurried over the ship as 
it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She 
seemed disappointed and agitated, when I heard a faint voice 
call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all 
the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. 
When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress 
for him on deck in the shade ; but of late his illness had so 
increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed 
a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been 
helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning 
against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so 
ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not 
recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on 
his features. It read at once a whole volume of sorrow. She 
clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing 
them in silent agony. 

1 A river in the county of Lancaster, England, which opens into a fine 
estuary before reaching the sea at Liverpool. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 23 

All now was hurry and bustle, — the meetings of acquaint- 
ances, the greetings of friends, the consultations of men of busi- 
ness. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no 
cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers, 
but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 



CHRISTMAS. 1 



" But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of his 
good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot 
have 7>wre of him.'''' — Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

" A man might then behold 

At Christinas, in each hall, 
Good f res to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gates were not chidden, 
When this old cap zvas new." 

Old Song. 8 

THERE is nothing in England that exercises a more delight- 
ful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the 
holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall 
the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, 
when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed 
it to be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring with them 
the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps, with 
equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, 
social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are 
daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away 

1 Christ and Mass (Anglo-Saxon Maessa, "a holy day or feast"), the 
Christian festival of the Nativity. The festival properly begins on the even- 
ing of Dec. 24, and lasts until Epiphany, Jan. 6, the whole being termed 
"Christmas-tide." Dec. 25, however, is the day more specifically observed. 

2 From Guild Hall Giants, by Thomas Hood, a famous English humorist 
and popular author (born in London, 1798; died, 1845). 



24 IRVING. 

by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They re- 
semble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture which 
we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapi- 
dated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and 
alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherish- 
ing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which 
it has derived so many of its themes, — as the ivy winds its rich 
foliage about the Gothic arch and moldering tower, gratefully 
repaying their support by clasping together their tottering re- 
mains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone 
of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, 
and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. 
The services of the church about this season are extremely tender 
and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of 
our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announce- 
ment. They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the 
season of Advent, 1 until they break forth in full jubilee on the 
morning that brought peace and good will to men. 2 I do not 
know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to 
hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas 
anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with 
triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, 
that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the 
religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gather- 
ing together of family connections, and drawing closer again those 

i The season of moral and religious preparation, between St. Andrew's 
Day (Nov. 30) and Christmas. Its observance dates from the fourth cen- 
tury, and from the sixth century it has been recognized as the beginning of 
the ecclesiastical year. At one time it was observed as strictly as Lent. 
Advent fasting is now confined to the week in which Ember Day (Dec. 13) 
occurs. 

2 No war was declared, and no capital executions were permitted to take 
place, during this season of good will. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 25 

bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sor- 
rows of the world are continually operating to cast loose ; of 
calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in 
life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about 
the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to 
grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of 
childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that gives a 
charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a 
great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. 
Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny 
landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of 
the bird ; the murmur of the stream ; the breathing fragrance of 
spring ; the soft voluptuousness of summer ; the golden pomp ot 
autumn ; earth, with its mantle of refreshing green ; and heaven, 
with its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, — all fill 
us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury ot 
mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies 
despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted 
snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreari- 
ness and desolation of the landscape, the short, gloomy days and 
darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in 
our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly 
disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are 
more concentrated, our friendly sympathies more aroused. We 
feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are 
brought more closely together by dependence on each other for 
enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart ; and we draw our pleas- 
ures from the deep wells of living kindness, which lie in the quiet 
recesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish 
forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on enter- 
ing the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening 
fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine 
through the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier 



26 IRVING. 

welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into 
a broader and more cordial smile, where is the shy glance of 
love more sweetly eloquent, than by the winter fireside? and as 
the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the 
distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the 
chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober 
and sheltered security with which we look round upon the com- 
fortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits through- 
out every class of society, have always been fond of those festi- 
vals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of coun- 
try life, and they were in former days particularly observant of 
the religious and social rites of Christmas. 1 It is inspiring to 
read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of 
the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete aban- 
donment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival 
was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and un- 
lock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, 
and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and 
kindness. 2 The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded 
with the harp and the Christmas carol, 3 and their ample boards 
groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cot- 
tage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay 4 

1 Christmas Day, in the primitive Church, was always observed as the 
sabbath day, and, like that, preceded by an eve or vigil : hence our present 
Christmas Eve. 

2 In farmhouses in the north of England the servants used to lay a large 
knotty block for their Christmas fire, and during the time it lasted they 
were entitled by custom to ale at their meals. 

3 The well-known hymn, "Gloria in Excelsis," sung by the angels to the 
shepherds at our Lord's nativity, was the earliest Christmas carol. We next 
hear of one sung in the thirteenth century. It is in the British Museum, and 
written in Anglo-Norman. 

4 Since the days of the ancient Romans, this tree, a species of laurel, the 
aromatic leaves of which are often found packed with figs, has at all times 
been dedicated to all purposes of joyous commemoration ; and its branches 
have been used as the emblems of peace, victory, and joy. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 27 

and holly. 1 The cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lat- 
tice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip 
knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with 
legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the 
havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It 
has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs 
of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into 
a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic 
surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have 
entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, 2 are 
become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. 
They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men en- 
joyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously, — times wild and 
picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materi- 
als, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and 
manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more 
of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into 
a broader but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those 
deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm 
bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened 
and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local peculi- 
arities, its home-bred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The 
traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospi- 
talities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baroni- 
al castles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. 
They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, 
and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light, showy 
saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 3 

1 A plant of the genus Ilex. The common holly grows trom twenty to 
thirty feet in height. It is especially used about Christmas time to decorate 
the inside of houses and churches, — a relic, it is thought, of Druidism. 

2 Second Henry IV., act iv. sc. 3. 

3 In 1589 an order was issued to the gentlemen of Norfolk and Suffolk, 
commanding them "to depart from London before Christmas, and to repair 
to their country homes, there to keep hospitality amongst their neighbors." 



28 IRVING. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. 
It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused 
which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The 
preparations making on every side for the social board that is 
again to unite friends and kindred ; the presents 1 of good cheer 
passing and repassing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners 
of kind feelings ; the evergreens distributed about houses and 
churches, emblems of peace and gladness, — all these have the 
most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling 
benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, 2 rude as 
may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter 
night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been 
awakened by them in that still and solemn hour " when deep sleep 
falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and,, 
connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have 
almost fancied them into another celestial choir, 3 announcing 
peace and good will to mankind. How delightfully the imagina- 
tion, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns every- 
thing to melody and beauty! The very crowing of the cock, 
heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, " telling 
the night watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the 
common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival. 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
The bird of dawning singeth all night long: 
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallowed and so gracious is the time."* 

1 The practice of giving presents at Christmas was undoubtedly founded on 
the Pagan custom of New-Year's gifts, with which in these times it is blended. 

2 Or wayte, originally a kind of night-watchman who sounded the hours 
of his watch, and guarded the streets ; later, a musician who sang out of 
doors at Christmas time, going from house to house. 

3 Luke ii. 13, 14. i Hamlet,, act i. sc. I, 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 29 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, 
and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom 
can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated 
feeling, — the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospi- 
tality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. 
The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond 
the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, fraught with the 
fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit, 
as the Arabian -breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the 
distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land, — though for me no 
social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, 
nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the chreshold, 
— yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul 
from the happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is 
reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every countenance, bright 
with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror 
transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining be- 
nevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplat- 
ing the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling 
and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have 
his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but 
he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the 
charm of a merry Christmas. 



30 IRVING. 



THE STAGECOACH. 

" Omne bene 

Sine poena 

Tei7ipus est ludendi 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 

Libros deponendi." l 

Old Holiday School Song. 

IN the preceding paper I have made some general observations 
on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to 
illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the 
country ; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my 
reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that 
genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only 
for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, 2 I rode for a 
long distance in one of the public coaches on the day preceding 
Christinas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with 
passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the 
mansions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It 
was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of 
delicacies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the 
coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the impending 
feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my fellow- 
passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit 
which I have observed in the children of this country. They 
were returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising 
themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the 

1 Free translation : — 

" There's a time for hard playing, 
With nothing to fear. 
Drop books without delaying — 
The hour is here." 

2 A northern county of England, famed for the beauty of its river scenery, 
in which respect it is scarcely surpassed by Scotland. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 31 

gigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues, and the impractica- 
ble feats they were to perform during their six-weeks' emancipation 
from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They 
were full of the anticipations of the meeting with the family and 
household, down to the very cat and dog, and of the joy they 
were to give their little sisters by the presents with which their 
pockets were crammed ; but the meeting to which they seemed 
to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, 
which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, pos- 
sessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Buceph- 
alus. 1 How he could trot! How he could run! And then such 
leaps as he would take! There was not a hedge in the whole 
country that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, 
to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a 
host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in 
the whole world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than 
ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore 
his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas 
greens stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a per- 
sonage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so 
during this season, having so many commissions to execute in 
consequence of the great interchange of presents. And here, 
perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untraveled readers to 
have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this 
very numerous and important class of functionaries, who have a 
dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and 
prevalent throughout the fraternity ; so that, wherever an English 
stagecoach-man may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of 
any other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with 
red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every 
vessel of the skin. He is swelled into jolly dimensions by fre- 
quent potations of malt liquors ; and his bulk is still further in- 

1 The horse of Alexander the Great. 



32 IRVING. 

creased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a 
cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a 
broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of colored hand- 
kerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted, and tucked in at the 
bosom ; and has in summer time a large bouquet of flowers in 
his buttonhole, — the present, most probably, of some enamored 
country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, 
striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet 
a pair of jockey boots which reach about halfway up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision. He has 
a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials ; and, notwith- 
standing the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still 
discernible that neatness and propriety of person which is almost 
inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and 
consideration along the road ; has frequent conferences with the 
village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust 
and dependence ; and he seems to have a good understanding 
with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives 
where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins 
with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of 
the hostler, his duty being merely to drive them from one stage 
to another. When off the box, 1 his hands are thrust in the pock- 
ets of his great-coat, and he rolls about the inn yard with an air 
of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded 
by an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and 
those nameless hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and run 
errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of batten- 
ing on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap- 
room. These all look up to him as to an oracle ; treasure up his 
cant phrases ; echo his opinions about horses and other topics of 
jockey lore ; and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air and car- 
riage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his 
hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an em- 
bryo coachey. 2 

1 The place beneath the driver's seat on a coach : hence the seat itself. 

2 Coachman ; stage-driver. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 33 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned 
in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every 
countenance throughout the journey. A stagecoach, however, 
carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as 
it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, 
produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; 
some, with bundles and bandboxes, to secure places, and, in the 
hurry of the moment, can hardly take leave of the group that 
accompanies them. In the mean time the coachman has a world 
of small commissions to execute : sometimes he delivers a hare 
or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the 
door of a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing leer and 
words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing 
housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux 1 from some rustic admirer. 
As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the 
window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country 
faces and blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assembled 
juntos 2 of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations 
there for the important purpose of seeing company pass ; but the 
sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing 
of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, 
with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by ; 
the cyclops 3 round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and 
suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty specter, in brown 
paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a 
moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn 
sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphureous 
gleams of the smithy. 

1 French, billet (" small letter ") and donx (" sweet ") : hence a love-letter. 

2 Originally private councils ; here merely in the sense of gossiping 
groups. 

3 The cyclops, according to Greek mythology and story, were a race of 
stalwart giants with one eye in their foreheads : hence their name (Greek ku- 
klopes, kitklos, " a circle; " and ops, " eye"), the round-eyed. They forged 
the thunderbolts of Zeus, the trident of Poseidon, and the helmet of Pluto. 
The allusion is to their size and strength as gigantic blacksmiths. 



34 IRVING. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than 
usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if every- 
body was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and 
other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the vil- 
lages. The grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were 
thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly 
about, putting their dwellings in order ; and the glossy branches 
of holly, with their bright-red berries, began to appear at the 
windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of 
Christmas preparations : " Now capons and hens, besides tur- 
keys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — must all die — 
for in twelve clays a multitude of people will not be fed with a 
little. Now plums and spice, -sugar and honey, square it among 
pies and broth. Now or never must music be in tune, for the 
youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged 
sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and 
must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards 1 on Christ- 
mas Eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy, whether mas- 
ter or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the 
butler ; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his 
fingers." 2 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout 
from my little traveling companions. They had been looking 
out of the coach windows for the last few miles, recognizing 
every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there 
was a general burst of joy. "There's John, and there's old 
Carlo, and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, clap- 
ping their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old, sober-looking servant 

1 Cards furnished one of the great resources at this season of long even- 
ings and indoor amusements, as they appear also to have formed an express 
feature of the Christmas entertainments of all ranks of people in old times. 
We are told that the squire in Queen Anne's time " never played cards but 
at Christmas, when the family pack was produced from the mantelpiece," 

2 Stevenson, in Twelve Months (1661). 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 35 

in livery, waiting for them. He was accompanied by a superan- 
nuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, — a little old rat 
of a pony, with a shaggy mane, and long, rusty tail, who stood 
dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of die bustling 
times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows 
leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, 
who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the 
great object of interest. All wanted to mount at once ; and it 
was with some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride 
by turns, and the eldest should ride first. 

Off they set at last, — one on the pony, with the dog bounding 
and barking before him ; and the others holding John's hands, 
both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions about 
home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a 
feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy 
predominated ; for I was reminded of those days when, like 
them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was 
the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments af- 
terwards to water the horses, and, on resuming our route, a turn 
of the road brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I could 
just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the 
portico ; and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and 
old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the 
coach window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a 
grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had determined 
to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the 
inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming 
through a window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth 
time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad, honest 
enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious 
dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly pol- 
ished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green. 
Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the 



36 IRVING. 

ceiling ; a smoke-jack * made its ceaseless clanking beside the 
fireplace ; and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured 
deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold 
round of beef and other hearty viands upon it, over which two 
foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travelers of 
inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while 
others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high- 
backed oaken settles 2 beside the fire. Trim housemaids were 
hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh 
bustling landlady, but still seizing an occasional moment to ex- 
change a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group 
round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's ;j 
humble idea of the comforts of mid- winter : — 

" Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair, 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale, and now a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season cloth require." 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to 
the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of 
the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought 
I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye 
caught mine. I was not mistaken : it was Frank Bracebridge, 
a sprightly, good-humored young fellow, with whom I had once 
traveled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, 
for the countenance of an old fellow-traveler always brings up 
the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, 
and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview 

1 A machine, consisting of fly-wheels used to rotate a roasting-spit, and 
operated by the current of rising air in a chimney. 

2 Benches. 

3 " Poor Robin " was the pseudonym of Robert Herrick, the poet, under 
which he issued a series of almanacs (begun in 1661). The quotation is from 
the almanac for 1684. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 37 

at an inn was impossible ; and finding that I was not pressed for 
time, and was merely making a tour of observation, he insisted 
that I should give him a day or two at his father's country seat, 
to which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a 
few miles' distance. " It is better than eating a solitary Christ- 
mas dinner at an inn," said he, " and I can assure you of a hearty 
welcome in something of the old-fashioned style." His reason- 
ing was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen 
for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a 
little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, 
with his invitation : the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few 
moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the Brace- 
bridges. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

" Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 
From the night-mare and the go/din, 
That is hight good felloto Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weazles, rats, and ferrets : 
From curfew-time 
To the next prime." 

Cartwright. * 

IT was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold. Our 
chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground. The post-boy 
smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses 
were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," said my com- 
panion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some of the 
merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. 2 My father, you 

1 William Cartwright (1611-43), an English poet and clergyman, was 
very popular in his time, especially about Oxford, where he was educated, 
and where he afterwards preached. 

2 The servants had enlarged privileges during this season, not only by 
custom, but by positive enactment ; and certain games, which at other peri- 
ods they were prohibited from engaging in, were allowed at Christmas time. 



3» IRVING. 

must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides 
himself upon keeping up something of old English hospitality. 
He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with 
nowadays in its purity, — the old English country gentleman ; for 
our men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and 
fashion is carried so much into the country, that the strong, rich 
peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away. My 
father, however, from early years, took honest Peacham 1 for his 
text-book, instead of Chesterfield. 2 He determined in his own 
mind that there was no condition more truly honorable and en- 
viable than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, 
and therefore passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is 
a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and 
holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient 
and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed, his fa- 
vorite range of reading is among the authors who flourished at 
least two centuries since, who, he insists, wrote and thought more 
like true Englishmen than any of their successors. He even re- 
grets sometimes that he had not been born a few centuries ear- 
lier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners and 
customs. As he lives at some distance from the main road, in 
rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near 
him, he has that most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, 
an opportunity of indulging the bent of his own humor without 
molestation. Being representative of the oldest family in the 
neighborhood, and a great part of the peasantry being his ten- 
ants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply 
by the appellation of 'The Squire,' — a title which has been ac- 
corded to the head of the family since time immemorial. I think 
it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to 

1 Henry Peacham (born in Hertfordshire, England, in the sixteenth cen- 
tury) was the author of The Complete Gentleman (1622). 

2 Chesterfield (Philip Dormer Stanhope) was an English courtier, orator, 
and wit, renowned as a model of politeness, and criterion of taste. He was 
born in London in 1694. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 39 

prepare you for any little eccentricities that might otherwise 
appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at 
length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy, mag- 
nificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into 
flourishes and flowers. The huge, square columns that supported 
the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining 
was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost 
buried in shrubbery. 

The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still, frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garri- 
soned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As 
the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a 
little primitive dame, dressed very much in antique taste, with a 
neat kerchief and stomacher, 1 and her silver hair peeping from 
under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying forth, 
with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. 
Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas 
Eve in the servants' hall. They could not do without him, as he 
was the best hand at a song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight, and walk through 
the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the 
chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble ave- 
nue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon glit- 
tered, as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. 
The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, 
which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty 
crystal; and at a distance might be seen a thin, transparent 
vapor, stealing up from the low grounds, and threatening grad- 
ually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked round him with transport. " How 
often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenue, on returning 

1 The portion of a dress forming, generally, the lower part of the bodice, 
extending down in front into the skirt, and usually overlapping it. 



4-0 IRVING. 

home on school vacations! How often have I played under these 
trees when a boy! I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, 
as we look up to those who have cherished us in childhood. My 
father was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and hav- 
ing us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and 
superintend our games with the strictness that some parents do 
the studies of their children. He was very particular that we 
should play the old English games according to their original 
form, and consulted old books for precedent and authority for 
every 'merrie disport ;' yet I assure you there never was pedantry 
so delightful. It was the policy of the good old gentleman to 
make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the 
world ; and I value this delicious home feeling as one of the 
choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all 
sorts and sizes, — "mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs 
of low degree," — that, disturbed by the ringing of the porter's 
bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, 
across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 
Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me." 1 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the bark 
was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was sur- 
rounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful 
animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
moonshine. It was an irregular building of some magnitude, 
and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. One 
wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow- 
windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the foli- 
age of which the small, diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered 
with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French 

1 King Lear act iij. sc. (>• 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 41 

taste of Charles II.'s 1 time, having been repaired and altered, as 
my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned with 
that monarch at the Restoration. 2 The grounds about the house 
were laid out in the old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, 
clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, 
ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. 
The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful to preserve 
this obsolete finery in all its original state. He admired this 
fashion in gardening : it had an air of magnificence, was courtly 
and noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imi- 
tation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modern 
republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical government : 
it smacked of the leveling system. I could not help smiling at 
this introduction of politics into gardening, though I expressed 
some apprehension that I should find the old gentleman rather 
intolerant in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was 
almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father 
meddle with politics ; and he believed he had got this notion 
from a member of Parliament who once passed a few weeks with 
him. The Squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped 
yew-trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally at- 
tacked by modern landscape-gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, 
and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the build- 
ing. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the servants' 
hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and even en- 
couraged by the Squire, throughout the twslve days 3 of Christ- 
mas, provided every thing was done conformably to ancient 

1 Charles II. (born, 1630) was proclaimed king by the Scottish Parlia- 
ment in 1649. He landed in Scotland in 1650, and was crowned the follow- 
ing year. He marched into England against Cromwell, but was defeated at 
Worcester in 1651. 

2 In English history, the reestablishing of the monarchy with Charles II. 
in 1660, and the period of his reign. 

3 Referring to the period between Christmas and Epiphany, or from Dec. 
25 to Jan. 6. 



42 IRVING. 

usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, 
shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob-apple, 
and snap-dragon. The Yule clog 1 and Christmas candle were 
regularly burnt ; and the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung 
up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty house-maids. 2 

So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to 
ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our 
arrival being announced, the Squire came out to receive us, ac- 
companied by his two other sons, — one a young officer in the 
army, home on leave of absence ; the other an Oxonian, just 
from the university. The Squire was a fine, healthy-looking old 
gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open, florid 
countenance, in which a physiognomist, with the advantage, like 
myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular mix- 
ture of whim and benevolence. 

1 Irving's Note. — The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the 
root of a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony on Christmas Eve, 
laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While 
it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes 
it was accompanied by Christmas candles, but in the cottages the only light 
was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn 
all night : if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. Herrick men- 
tions it in one of his songs : — 

" Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boyes, 
The Christmas log to the firing; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your hearts desiring." 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in England, 
particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected with 
it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is 
burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand 
remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's 
Christmas fire. 

2 Irving's Note. — The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and 
kitchens at Christmas, and the young men have the privilege of kissing the 
girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush.* When the berries 
are all plucked, the privilege ceases. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 43 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate. As the even- 
ing was far advanced, the Squire would not permit us to change 
our traveling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, 
which was assembled in a large, old-fashioned hall. It was com- 
posed of different branches of a numerous family connection, 
where there were the usual proportions of old uncles and aunts, 
comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming 
country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding- 
school hoidens. They were variously occupied, — some at a 
round game of cards ; others conversing around the fireplace ; at 
one end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly 
grown up, others of a more tender and budding age, fully en- 
grossed by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, 
penny trumpets, and tattered dolls about the floor, showed traces 
of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a 
happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful 
night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 
Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. 
I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, 
and the Squire had evidently endeavored to restore it to some- 
thing of its primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace 
was suspended a picture of a warrior in armor, standing by a 
white horse ; and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, 
and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were inserted 
in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend 
hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the corners of the apartment were 
fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting implements. The 
furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, 
though some articles of modern convenience had been added, and 
the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole presented 
an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide, overwhelming 
fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which 
was an enormous log, glowing and blazing, and sending forth a 



44 IRVING. 

vast volume of light and heat : this I understood was the Yule 
clog, which the Squire was particular in having brought in and 
illumined on a Christmas Eve, according to ancient custom. 

It was really delightful to see the old Squire seated in his he- 
reditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, 
and looking around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth 
and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched 
at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawned, would 
look fondly up in his master's face, wag his tail against the floor, 
and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness and pro- 
tection. There is an emanation from the heart in ge mine hos- 
pitality which cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and 
puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not been seated 
many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cava- 
lier, before I found myself as much at home as if I had been one 
of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served 
up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with 
wax, and around which were several family portraits decorated 
with holly and ivy. 1 Beside the accustomed lights, two great 
wax tapers, called Christmas candles, 2 wreathed with greens, were 
placed on a highly polished beaufet among the family plate. The 
table was abundantly spread with substantial fare ; but the Squire 
made his supper of frumenty, — a dish made of wheat cakes 
boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times 
for Christmas Eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, 3 in the retinue 

1 Ivy was used not only as a vintner's sign, but also among the evergreens 
at funerals. 

2 Christmas was called the " Feast of Lights " in the Western or Latin 
Church, because they used many lights or candles at the feast ; or, rather, 
because Christ, the Light of all lights, that true Light, came into the world : 
hence the Christmas candle. 

3 By some it has been supposed, from the Oriental ingredients which en- 
ter into its composition, to have a reference to the offerings made by the Wise 
Men of the East ; and it was anciently the custom to make these pies of an 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 45 

of the feast ; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that 
I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all 
the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel 
acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humors 
of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always ad- 
dressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was a 
tight, brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old bachelor. 
His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his face, slightly 
pitted with the small-pox, with a dry, perpetual bloom on it, like 
a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness 
and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression 
that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, 
dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, 
and making infinite merriment by harpings upon old themes ; 
which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family chronicles did 
not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during 
supper to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled 
laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, 
who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part 
of the company, who laughed at everything he said or did, and 
at every turn of his countenance. I could not wonder at it, for 
he must have been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. 
He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his 
hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket-handker- 
chief ; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature that the 
young folks were ready to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He 
was an old bachelor, of a small, independent income, which, by 
careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. He re- 
volved through the family system like a vagrant comet in its 
orbit ; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another 
quite remote, as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive 

oblong form, thereby representing the manger in which, on that occasion, 
these sages found the infant Jesus. 



46 IRVING. 

connections and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping, 
buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present moment; and 
his frequent change of scene and company prevented his acquir- 
ing those rusty, unaccommodating habits, with which old bache- 
lors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family 
chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and intermar- 
riages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a 
great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all the elder 
ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitu- 
ally considered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the 
revels among the children ; so that there was not a more popular 
being in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Brace- 
bridge. Of late years he had resided almost entirely with the 
Squire, to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he par- 
ticularly delighted by jumping with his humor in respect to old 
times, and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occa- 
sion. We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, 
for no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other 
beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master Simon 
was called on for a good old Christmas song. He bethought 
himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a 
voice that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally 
into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a 
quaint old ditty : — 

"Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together ; 

And when they appear, 

Let us make such a cheer 
As will keep out the wind and the weather," etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old har- 
per was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been 
strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comforting him- 
self with some of the Squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of 
hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and, though ostensi- 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 47 

bly a resident of the village, was oftener to be found in the 
Squire's kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman being fond 
of the sound of "harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one. 
Some of the older folks joined in it, and the Squire himself figured 
down several couple with a partner with whom he affirmed he 
had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Mas- 
ter Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link between 
the old times and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in 
the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his 
dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, 
rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; but he had 
unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl from board- 
ing-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on 
the stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts at elegance — 
such are the ill-assorted matches to which antique gentlemen are 
unfortunately prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his 
maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knave- 
ries with impunity. He was full of practical jokes, and his de- 
light was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap 
youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the women. The 
most interesting couple in the dance was the young officer and 
a ward of the Squire's, a beautiful, blushing girl of seventeen. 
From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of 
the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness growing up 
between them ; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the 
hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and 
handsome, and, like most young British officers of late years, 
had picked up various small accomplishments on the Conti- 
nent, — he could talk French and Italian, draw landscapes, sing 
very tolerably, dance divinely, — but, above all, he had been 
wounded at Waterloo. 1 What girl of seventeen, well read in 

1 The French under Napoleon were defeated by the English, June 18, 
1815, at Waterloo, a village in Belgium. 



48' IRVING. 

poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and 
perfection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and, 
lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which I am 
half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French air 
of the " Troubadour." The Squire, however, exclaimed against 
having anything on Christmas Eve but good old English ; upon 
which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as 
if in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and, with 
a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's 1 "Night-Piece to 

Julia:"— 

" Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. 
The shooting stars attend thee, 
And the elves also, 
Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

"No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee; 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ; 
But on, on thy way, 
Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

"Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

"Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 
And when I shall meet 
Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee." 

The song might or might not have been intended in compli- 
ment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called. 
She, however, was certainly unconscious of any such application, 

1 An English poet and clergyman (1591-1674). As a writer of pastoral 
lyrics, Herrick takes a high rank in English literature. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 49 

for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon 
the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful 
blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom ; but all that 
was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance. Indeed, so 
great was her indifference, that she was amusing herself with pluck- 
ing to pieces a choice bouquet of hothouse flowers, and by the time 
the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted 
old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on 
my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule clog still 
sent forth a dusky glow ; and, had it not been the season when 
"no spirit dare stir abroad," * I should have been half tempted 
to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies 
might not be at their revels about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponder- 
ous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days 
of the giants. The room was paneled with cornices of heavy 
carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely 
intermingled ; and a row of black-looking portraits stared mourn- 
fully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich though faded 
damask, with a lofty tester, 2 and stood in a niche opposite a bow- 
window. I had scarcely got into bed, when a strain of music 
seemed to break forth in the air just below the window. I 
listened, and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded 
to be the waits 3 from some neighboring village. They went round 
the house, playing under the windows. I drew aside the curtains 
to hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the 
upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the antiquated 
apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and 

1 It is an old superstition, that on the eve of Christmas "the bird of 
dawning singeth all night long" to scare away all evil things from infesting 
the hallowed hours. 

2 Old French, testiere (" a headpiece") ; Latin, testa (" a shell"). The 
material stretched over a four-posted bed, forming a canopy over it. 

3 See Note 2, p. 28. 



50 IRVING. 

aerial, and seemed to accord with quiet and moonlight. I lis- 
tened and listened. They became more and more tender and 
remote ; and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon 
the pillow, and I fell asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

" Dark and dull night Jlie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December tum'd to May. 

Why does the chilling zoifiter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shome, 
Thus on the sudden ? — come and see 
The cause, why things thus fragrant be.'" 

Herrick. 

WHEN I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and 
nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me 
of their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the 
sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering 
consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an 
old Christmas carol, the burden of which was, — 

" Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas Day in the morning." 

I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, 
and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a 
painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the 
eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going 
the rounds of the house, singing at every chamber door; but 
my sudden appearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. 
They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their fin- 
gers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from under their 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 51 

eyebrows ; until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and, 
as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in 
triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in 
this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my 
chamber looked out upon what in summer would have been a 
beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream 
winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble 
clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat 
hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over 
it, and a church with its dark spire in strong relief against the 
clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded with evergreens, ac- 
cording to the English custom, which would have given almost 
an appearance of summer ; but the morning was extremely frosty. 
The light vapor of the preceding evening had been precipitated 
by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass 
with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun 
had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin, 
perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its clusters of 
red berries just before my window, was basking himself in the 
sunshine, and piping a few querulous notes; and a peacock was 
displaying all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride 
and gravity of a Spanish grandee x on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to 
invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small 
chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the principal 
part of the family already assembled in a kind of gallery, fur- 
nished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books : the ser- 
vants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman read 
prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon 
acted as clerk, and made the responses ; and I must do him the 
justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity and 
decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. 

1 A Spanish nobleman, especially one of the first rank (Spanish, grande). 



52 IRVING. 

Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favor- 
ite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to a church mel- 
ody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices 
among the household, the effect was extremely pleasing ; but I 
was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sudden 
sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy Squire delivered 
one stanza ; his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all 
the bounds of time and tune, — 

" 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltless mirth, 
And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spic'd to the brink : 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land : 1 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning service was read 
on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by 
Mr. Bracebridge or some member of the family. It was once 
almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gen- 
try of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is 
falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer must be sensible of 
the order and serenity prevalent in those households where the 
occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning 
gives, as it were, the keynote to every temper for the day, and 
attunes every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true 
old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over 
modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among 
the causes of modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the de- 
cline of old English heartiness ; and, though he admitted them to 
his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave 
display of cold meats, wine, and ale on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Brace- 

1 Enriches the soil, and sends a plentiful harvest. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 53 

bridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was called by 
everybody but the Squire. We were escorted by a number of 
gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment, 
from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound, the last of 
which was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind. 
They were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master 
Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance 
an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow 
sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but feel the 
force of the Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily molded 
balustrades, and clipped yew-trees, carried with them an air of 
proud aristocracy. 

There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about 
the place ; and I was making some remarks upon what I termed 
a flock of them, that were basking under a sunny wall, when 
I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon, 
who told me, that, according to the most ancient and approved 
treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. " In 
the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, " we 
say a flight of doves or swallows ; a bevy of quails ; a herd 
of deer, of wrens, or cranes ; a skulk of foxes ; or a building 
of rooks." He went on to inform me, that, according to Sir 
Anthony Fitzherbert, 1 we ought to ascribe to this bird "both un- 
derstanding and glory ; for, being praised, he will presently set 
up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the bet- 
ter behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when 
his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till his 
tail come again as it was." 2 

1 An eminent English lawyer, who wrote, in 1523, The Book of Hus- 
bandry, — the first published work on agriculture in the English language. 

2 The peacock is said to be the vainest of birds. It came originally from 
India. It was there that Alexander the Great saw it for the first time. He 
was so impressed with its magnificent plumage, that he forbade all persons^ 
under pain of death, to kill any. 



54 IRVING. 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on so 
whimsical a subject : but I found that the peacocks were birds 
of some consequence at the hall ; for Frank Bracebridge in- 
formed me that they were great favorites with his father, who 
was extremely careful to keep up the breed, partly because they 
belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at the stately 
banquets of the olden time, 1 and partly because they had a pomp 
and magnificence about them highly becoming an old family 
mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of 
greater state and dignity than a peacock perched upon an antique 
stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment at 
the parish church with the village choristers, who were to perform 
some music of his selection. There was something extremely 
agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little man ; 
and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quota- 
tions from authors who certainly were not in the ran^e of every- 
day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank 
Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole 
stock of erudition was confined to some half a dozen old authors, 
which the Squire had put into his hands, and which he read over 
and over whenever he had a studious fit, as he sometimes had on 
a rainy day or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's 
" Book of Husbandry ; " Markham's " Country Contentments ;" 2 
the "Tretyse of Hunting," by Sir Thomas Cockayne, 3 Knight; 
Izaak Walton's 4 "Angler;" and two or three more such ancient 

1 Quintus Hortensius, the orator, was the first to have peacocks served 
at a banquet. After this no banquet was complete without this dish. 

2 See Note 2, p. 55. 

3 Cokaine or Cokayn (written also Cockaine), an English Catholic (born in 
Derbyshire, 1608 ; died, 1684), was a Royalist in the civil war. He composed 
some worthless plays and doggerel poems, which are only worthy of notice 
on account of the anecdotes they furnish of contemporary authors or actors. 

4 A celebrated English writer (born at Stafford, 1593; died, 1683). His 
principal work, The Complete Angler or Contemplative Man's Recreation, 
was published in 1653. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 55 

worthies of the pen, — were his standard authorities; and, like 
all men who know but a few books, he looked up to them with 
a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to his 
songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the Squire's 
library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice 
spirits of the last century. His practical application of scraps of 
literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prod- 
igy of book knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small 
sportsmen of the neighborhood. 

While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of the vil- 
lage bell, and I was told that the Squire was a little particular in 
having his household at church on a Christmas morning, consid- 
ering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing; for, as old 
Tusser 1 observed, — ■ 

"At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 
And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." 

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he 
has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established a 
musical club for their improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, 
as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the direc- 
tions of Jervaise Markham 2 in his ' Country Contentments.' For 
the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, solemn mouths,' and for 
the tenor the ' loud-ringing mouth,' among the country bump- 
kins ; and for ' sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious taste 
among the prettiest lasses in the neighborhood, though these last, 
he affirms, are the most difficult to keep in tune, your pretty fe- 

1 Thomas Tusser (1527-80), poet, was born at Essex, England. His 
poems on husbandry have the charm of simplicity and directness, and during 
his life they went through a number of editions. 

2 Jervaise (or Gervase) Markham, an English soldier and miscellaneous 
writer, was born in Nottinghamshire about 1570. He served in the Royalist 
army in the civil war, and died in 1655. 



56 IRVING. 

male singer being exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very 
liable to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, 
the most of the family walked to the church, which was a very 
old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, about half a 
Yiile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low, snug parson- 
age, which seemed coeval with the church. The front of it was 
perfectly matted with a yew-tree that had been trained against 
its walls, through the dense foliage of which apertures had 
been formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. As 
we passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth, and pre- 
ceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such as 
is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's 
table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meager, 
black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and 
stood off from each ear, so that his head seemed to have shrunk 
away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. Hq wore a rusty 
coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the 
church Bible and Prayer Book ; and his small legs seemed still 
smaller, from being planted in large shoes decorated with enor- 
mous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had 
been a chum of his father's at Oxford, 1 and had received this 
living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was a 
complete black-letter 2 hunter, and would scarcely read a work 
printed in the Roman character. The editions of Caxton and 
Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in 
his researches after such Old English writers as have fallen into 
oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the 
notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations 

1 The famous university situated in Oxford, the county town of Oxford, 
shire. 

2 A type which appeared in England about the year 1480. It was used 
especially for Bibles, law-books, royal proclamations, etc. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 57 

into the festive rites and holiday customs of former times, and 
had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon com- 
panion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with which 
men of adust temperament follow up any track of study, merely 
because it is denominated learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic 
nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom or of the rib- 
aldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old vol- 
umes so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected into 
his countenance ; which, if the face be indeed an index of the 
mind, might be compared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking 
the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the 
greens with which the church was decorated. It was, he ob- 
served, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the 
Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and though it might be inno- 
cently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, 
yet it had been deemed by the fathers of the Church as unhal- 
lowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was 
he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down 
a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson 
would consent to enter upon the service of the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple. On the 
walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges ; and 
just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on 
which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his legs crossed, 
— a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was one 
of the family who had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and 
the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and re- 
peated the responses very audibly, evincing that kind of ceremo- 
nious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the old 
school, and a man of old family connections. I observed, too, 
that he turned over the leaves of a folio Prayer Book with some- 
thing of a flourish ; possibly to show off an enormous seal-ring 
which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the look of a 



58 IRVING. 

family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about the 
musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the 
choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most 
whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among 
which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale feh 
low with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clari- 
net, and seemed to have blown his face to a point ; and there 
was another, a short, pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass 
viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round, bald head, 
like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces 
among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty 
morning had given a bright, rosy tint ; but the gentlemen choris- 
ters had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona x fiddles, more 
for tone than looks ; and, as several had to sing from the same 
book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike 
those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tomb- 
stones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, 
the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, 
and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time 
by traveling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing 
more bars than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But 
the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and ar- 
ranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great 
expectation. Unluckily, there was a blunder at the very outset. 
The musicians became flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; 
everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a 
chorus beginning, " Now let us sing with one accord," which 
seemed to be a signal for parting company. All became discord 
and confusion. Each shifted for himself, and got to the end as 

1 The capital of a province of Lombardy, also named Cremona, formerly 
celebrated for its violins and other musical instruments. Great prices were 
paid for violins made in Cremona. The manufacture of these has now de- 
clined. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 59 

well, or rather as soon, as he could, excepting one old chorister 
in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long, sono- 
rous nose, who, happening to stand a little apart, and being 
wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quivering course, wrig- 
gling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo 
of at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and 
ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not 
merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; supporting the 
correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the Church, 
and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Csesarea, 1 
St. Cyprian, 2 St. Chrysostom, 3 St. Augustine, 4 and a cloud more 
of saints and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. 
I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty 
array of forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed 
inclined to dispute, but I soon found that the good man had a 
legion of ideal adversaries to contend with, having, in the course 
of his researches on the subject of Christmas, got completely em- 
broiled in the sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the 
Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the 
Church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land by 
proclamation of Parliament. 5 The worthy parson lived but with 
times past, and knew but little of the present. 

1 Instructor of Justinian, and abbot of St. Alexander at Prisrend in Mace- 
donia, afterwards Bishop of Sardica in 517. 

2 Bishop of Carthage in the third century, one of the most illustrious men 
in the early history of the Church, and one of the most notable of its early 
martyrs. He was ordered to be beheaded Sept. 14, 258, by Emperor 
Valerian. 

3 The most famous of the Greek fathers (born at Antioch about 347). 
The festival of St. Chrysostom is observed both in the Greek and in the 
Latin Church, — by the former on Nov. 13, and by the latter on Jan. 27. 

4 The greatest of the four great fathers of the Latin Church (born in 
Numidia, Nov. 13, A.D. 354). 

5 " The House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, 
for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a ter- 



60 IRVING. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his an- 
tiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the 
gazettes of the day, while the era of the Revolution was mere 
modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed 
since the fiery persecution of poor mince pie throughout the land, 
when plum porridge was denounced as " mere popery," and roast- 
beef as anti-Christian, and that Christmas had been brought in 
again triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the 
Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of his con- 
test, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to com- 
bat. He had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne 1 and two or 
three other forgotten champions of the Roundheads, 2 on the sub- 
ject of Christmas festivity, and concluded by urging his hearers, 
in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the tradi- 
tional customs of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this 
joyful anniversary of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more 
immediate effects ; for, on leaving the church, the congregation 
seemed, one and all, possessed with the gayety of spirit so ear- 

rible remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 
2 Cor. v. 1 6, i Cor. xv. 14, 17; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded 
upon these Scriptures, John xx. I, Rev. i. 10, Psalms cxviii. 24, Lev. xxiii. 
7, II, Mark xv. 8, Psalms lxxxiv. 10; in which Christmas is called Anti- 
christ's masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who observe it, etc. 
In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in consultation about 
the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to 
sit on the following day, which was commonly called Christmas day." — 
Flying Eagle (a small gazette published Dec. 24, 1652). 

1 William Prynne (1600-69) was a Puritan to the core. He published in 
1633 a book (Histrio-Mastix) which was an attack upon stage plays. The 
Queen was very much interested in the drama at this time, and Prynne's 
offensive words were supposed to apply to her. Prynne was sentenced by the 
Star Chamber to fine, imprisonment, and to be set in the pillory, where he 
was to lose both his ears. 

2 Adherents of the Parliamentary or Puritan party, as opposed to the 
Royalists ; called Roundheads in derisive allusion to their close-cut hair, the 
Royalists usually wearing theirs long. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 61 

nestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots 
in the churchyard, greeting and shaking hands ; and the children 
ran about crying, "Ule! Ule!" and repeating some uncouth 
rhymes, 1 which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had 
been handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their 
hats to the Squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the 
season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were in- 
vited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out the cold 
of the weather ; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the 
poor, which convinced me, that, in the midst of his enjoyments, 
the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas vir- 
tue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowing with gen- 
erous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground 
which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic 
merriment now and then reached our ears. The Squire paused 
for a few moments, and looked around with an air of inexpressi- 
ble benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to 
inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morn- 
ing, the sun, in his cloudless journey, had acquired sufficient power 
to melt away the thin covering of snow from every southern 
declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an 
English landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts of smiling 
verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded 
slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank on which the broad 
rays rested yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glitter- 
ing through the dripping grass, and sent up slight exhalations to 
contribute to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of 
the earth. There was something truly cheering in this triumph 
of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter : it 
was, as the Squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospital- 



1 Irving's Note: — 



1 Ule ! Ule ! 

Three puddings in a pule ; 
Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 



62 IRVING. 

ity, breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and 
thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to 
the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the 
comfortable farmhouses and low thatched cottages. " I love," 
said he, " to see this day well kept by rich and poor. It is a 
great thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are 
sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it 
were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost dis- 
posed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction on every churl- 
ish enemy to this honest festival : — 

" ' Those who at Christmas do repine, 
And would fain hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch 1 catch 'em.' " 

The Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
games and amusements which were once prevalent at this season 
among the lower orders, and countenanced by the higher, when 
the old halls of castles and manor-houses were thrown open 
at daylight, when the tables were covered with brawn and beef 
and humming ale, when the harp and the carol resounded all day 
long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and 
make merry. 2 " Our old games and local customs," said he, 
" had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and 
the promotion of them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. 

1 Alluding to Jack Ketch, the hangman (1678). Ketch executed Lord 
Russell and the Duke of Monmouth. The name has become proverbial for 
hangmen. 

2 " An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i.e. on Christ- 
mas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by 
daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black jacks went plenti- 
fully about with toast, sugar, and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The 
Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young 
men must take the maiden (i.e. the cook) by the arms and run her round 
the market place till she is shamed of her laziness." — Round about our Sea- 
Coal Fire. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 63 

They made the times merrier and kinder and better, and I can 
truly say, with one of our old poets, — 

" ' I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 

"The nation," continued he, "is altered. We have almost 
lost our simple, true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their interests 
are separate. They have become too knowing, and begin to 
read newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and talk of reform. 
I think one mode to keep them in good humor in these hard 
times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on 
their estates, mingle more among the country people, and set the 
merry old English games going again." 

Such was the good Squire's project for mitigating public dis- 
content ; and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine 
in practice, and a few years before had kept open house during 
the holidays in the old style. The country people, however, did 
not understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality. 
Many uncouth circumstances occurred. The manor was overrun 
by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into 
the neighborhood in one week than the parish officers could get 
rid of in a year. Since then he had contented himself with in- 
viting the decent part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the 
hall on Christmas Day, and with distributing beef and bread and 
ale among the poor, that they might make merry in their own 
dwellings. 

We had not been long home, when the sound of music was 
heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without coats, 
their shirt-sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats decorated 
with greens, and clubs in their hands, were seen advancing up the 
avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and peasantry. 
They stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up a 



64 IRVING. 

peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate 
dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, 
keeping exact time to the music ; while one, whimsically crowned 
with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept 
capering round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas 
box 1 with many antic gesticulations. 

The Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest and 
delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced 
to the times when the Romans held possession of the island ; 
plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword 
dance of the ancients. It was now, he said, nearly extinct, but 
he had accidentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, 
and had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, it was 
too apt to be followed up by rough cudgel play, 2 and broken 
heads in the evening. 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained 
with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The Squire him- 
self mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward 
demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true, I perceived 
two or three of the younger peasants, as they were raising their 
tankards to their mouths, when the Squire's back was turned, 
making something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; 
but, the moment they caught my eye, they pulled grave faces, 

1 This title has been said to have been derived from the box which was 
kept on board of every vessel that sailed upon a distant voyage, for the re- 
ception of donations to the priest, who, in return, was expected to offer 
masses for the safety of the expedition, to the particular saint having charge 
of the ship, and, above all, of the box. The mass was at that time called 
" Christ mass," and the boxes kept to pay for it were of course called 
'' Christ-mass boxes." The poor were in the habit of begging from the rich 
*o contribute to the mass boxes, and hence the title which has descended to 
our day. A relic of these ancient boxes yet exists, in the earthen or wooden 
box, with a slit in it, which still bears the same name, and is carried by ser- 
vants and children for the purpose of gathering money at Christmas, being 
broken only when the period of collection is supposed to be over. 

' A bout with cudgels. Cudgels were thick short sticks, or staves. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 65 

and were exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, 
they all seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and 
amusements had made him well known throughout the neigh- 
borhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and cottage ; 
gossiped with the farmers and their wives ; romped with their 
daughters ; and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor the humble- 
bee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer 
and affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in 
the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty 
and familiarity of those above them. The warm glow of grati- 
tude enters into their mirth ; and a kind word or a small pleas- 
antry, frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the de- 
pendant more than oil and wine. When the Squire had retired, 
the merriment increased ; and there was much joking and laugh- 
ter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, 
white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village, 
for I observed all his companions to wait with open mouths for 
his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could 
well understand them. 

The whole house, indeed, seemed abandoned to merriment. 
As I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound 
of music in a small court, and, looking through a window that 
commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with 
pandean 1 pipes and tambourine. A pretty, coquettish house-maid 
was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the 
other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport, the 
girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, coloring 
up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. 

1 Pan, in Greek mythology, was the god of forests, pastures, and flocks, 
and was the attributed inventor of the shepherd's flute or pipe, the syrinx, — 
a series of graduated tubes set together (open at one end, and closed at the 
other), played by blowing across the open ends. 



66 IRVING. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 

" Lo, ncnv is come our joyful 'st feast / 

Let every man be jolly, 
Each roome tenth yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
JVozo all our neighbours' 1 chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks aj'e burning; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke, 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
IVee'l bury '/ in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry." 

Withers,! Juvenilia. 

IHaD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Brace- 
bridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwacking 
sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serving-up of 
the dinner. The Squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well 
as hall ; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, 
summoned the servants to carry in the meats. 

"Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice, 

His summons did obey; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
Marched boldly up, like our train band, 

Presented, and away." 2 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the Squire 
always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, crackling fire of 
logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and 
the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide-mouthed 
chimney. The great picture of the crusader and his white horse 
had been profusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and 

1 Written also Wither and Wyther. An English poet, satirist, and polit- 
ical writer (i 588-1667). 

2 From Sir John Suckling, an English poet (born in Middlesex about 
1608, died about 1642), celebrated as a wit at the court of Charles I. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 67 

holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and 
weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were the arms 
of the same warrior. I must own, by the by, I had strong 
doubts about the authenticity of the painting and armor as hav- 
ing belonged to the crusader, they certainly having the stamp of 
more recent days ; but I was told that the painting had been so 
considered time out of mind, and that, as to the armor, it had 
been found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present situa- 
tion by the Squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of 
the family hero ; and, as he was absolute authority on all such 
subjects in his own household, the matter had passed into current 
acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric 
trophy, on which was a display of plate that might have vied (at 
least in variety) with Belshazzar's x parade of the vessels of the 
temple, — "flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and 
ewers," the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that had 
gradually accumulated through many generations of jovial house- 
keepers. Before these stood the two Yule candles, 2 beaming like 
two stars of the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in 
branches ; and the whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. 
We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of 
minstrelsy ; the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fire- 
place, and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more power 
than melody. Never did Christmas board display a more goodly 
and gracious assemblage of countenances. Those who were not 
handsome were at least happy, and happiness is a rare improver 
of your hard-favored visage. I always consider an old English 
family as well worth studying as a collection of Holbein's 3 por- 

1 Son of Nabunahid, King of Babylon ; conquered by the Persians and 
Cyrus, 556 B.C. (Compare Daniel v. 2.) 

2 These were large candles lighted and burned at Christmas Eve festivi- 
ties. It was considered by many bad luck if the candle burned out before 
the close of the evening : and any portion left was kept to be burned at the 
corpse watch, or lich wake, of the owner. 

3 Hans Holbein (born at Griinstadt in 1497, died in 1543) was one of the 



68 IRVING. 

traits or Albert Durer's 1 prints. There is much antiquarian lore 
to be acquired, much knowledge of the physiognomies of former 
times. Perhaps it may be from having continually before their 
eyes those rows of old family portraits with which the mansions 
of this country are stocked : certain it is, that the quaint features 
of antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient 
lines ; and I have traced an old family nose through a whole 
picture gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to 
generation, almost from the time of the Conquest. Something 
of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company around 
me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic 
age, and been merely copied by succeeding generations ; and 
there was one little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, with a 
high Roman nose and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a 
great favorite of the Squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge 
all over, and the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who 
figured in the court of Henry VIII. 2 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, 
such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremo- 
nious days, but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient 
school. There was now a pause, as if something was expected, 
when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some degree of 
bustle. He was attended by a servant on each side with a large 
wax-light, and bore a silver dish on which was an enormous pig's 

most celebrated German painters. Henry VIII. gave him abundant employ- 
ment, and also bestowed upon him a large pension. Holbein was also a 
skillful architect and wood-engraver. His greatest pictures were, " Dance of 
Death," the " Adoration of the Shepherds and the Kings," and the " Last 
Supper." 

1 Albrecht Diirer (born at Nuremberg in 1471 ; died there, April, 1528) 
has^i name, in the history of art, equal to that of the greatest Italians. A 
very choice collection of his drawings (a large volume), forming part of Lord 
Arundel's collection, is in the British Museum. 

2 Henry VIII. (born at Greenwich, England, in 1491 ; died in 1547) 
ascended the English throne in the year 1509. He was the father of Queen 
Elizabeth. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 69 

head decorated with rosemary, 1 with a lemon in its mouth, which 
was placed with great formality at the head of the table. The 
moment this pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up 
a flourish ; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on 
•receiving a hint from the Squire, gave, with an air of the most 
comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as fol- 
lows: — 

" Caput apri defero, 2 

Reddens laudes Domino. 3 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merily 

Qui estis in convivio. " 4 

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, 
from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host, yet, I 
confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was introduced 
somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the conversation 
of the Squire and the parson that it was meant to represent the 
bringing-in of the boar's head, — a dish formerly served up with 
much ceremony, and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great 
tables on Christmas Day. " I like the old custom," said the 
Squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, but 
because it was observed at the college at Oxford 5 at which I was 
educated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind 
the time when I was young and gamesome ; and the noble old 
college hall ; and my fellow-students loitering about in their 
black gowns, many of whom, poor lads, are now in their graves." 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such 

1 Old English, rosmarine ; Latin, rosmarinus (ros, " dew; " and marinus, 
" of the sea"). So called because it flourishes best in places near the sea. 
It is very fragrant, and symbolic of remembrance. Compare Hamlet (act iv. 
sc. 5): "There's rosemary, that's for remembrance." 

2 " I bring the boar's head." 

3 " Returning praises to the Lord." 

* " As many as are at the banquet." 

* The famous university situated in the county of Oxfordshire. 



70 IRVING. 

associations, and who was always more taken up with the text 
than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the 
carol, which he affirmed was ^different from that sung at college. 
He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to 
give the college reading, accompanied by sundry annotations,, 
addressing himself at first to the company at large ; but, finding 
their attention gradually diverted to other talk and other objects, 
he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, until 
he concluded his remarks in an under-voice to a fat-headed old 
gentleman next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion 
of a huge plateful of turkey. 1 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented 
an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing 
larders. A distinguished post was allotted to "ancient sirloin," 2 

1 Irving's Note. — The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on 
Christmas Day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I 
was favored by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung; and as it 
may be acceptable to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and 
learned matters, I give it entire : — 

" The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry, 
Quot estis in convivio. 
Caput apri defero, 
Reddens laudes Domino. 

" The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, 
Reddens laudes Domino. 

" Our steward hath provided this 
In honour of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, 
Reddens laudes Domino." 

2 James I., on his return from a hunting excursion, so much enjoyed 
his dinner, consisting of a loin of roast beef, that he laid his sword across 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 71 

as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, " the standard of old 
English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of 
expectation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and 
which had evidently something traditional in their embellish- 
ments, but about which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, 
I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently decorated 
with peacocks' feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, 
which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, 
the Squire confessed with some little hesitation, was a pheasant 
pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most authentical ; but 
there had been such a mortality among the peacocks this season, 
that he could not prevail upon himself to have one killed. 1 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may 
not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to 
which I am a little given, were I to mention the other makeshifts 
of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavoring to 
follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint customs of an- 
tiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect shown to his 
whims by his children and relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily 

it, and dubbed it " Sir Loin." Etymologically, however, the word is from 
the French surlonge, " a sirloin: " sur (Latin, super), " over; " and longe, 
" loin." 

1 Irving's Note. — The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately 
entertainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the 
head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt : at 
the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn 
banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake 
any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shal- 
low, " by cock and pie." The peacock was also an important dish for the 
Christmas feast ; and Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the 
extravagance with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the 
gorgeous revels of the olden times : — 

" Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 
Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues : 
Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris; the carcases of three fat wethers 
bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock ! " 



72 IRVING. 

into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their 
parts, having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I 
was amused, too, at the air of profound gravitj with which the 
butler and other servants executed the duties assigned them, 
however eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look, — having, 
for the most part, been brought up in the household, and grown 
into keeping with the antiquated mansion, and the humors of its 
lord, — and most probably looked upon all his whimsical regula- 
tions as the established laws of honorable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge 
silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed 
before the Squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation, 
being the wassail bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. The 
contents had been prepared by the Squire himself ; for it was a 
beverage in the skillful mixture of which he particularly prided 
himself, alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the 
comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, in- 
deed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him, 
being composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced 
and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface. 1 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene 
look of indwelling delight as he stirred this mighty bowl. Hav- 
ing raised it to his lips with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas 
to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every one 
to follow his example, according to the primitive style, pronoun- 

i Irving's Note. — The wassail bowl was sometimes composed of ale 
instead of wine, with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs. In 
this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some old families, and 
round the hearth of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called 
" lamb's wool," and it is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night: — 

" Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool, 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, 

With store of ale too ; 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger." 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 73 

cing it " the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met 
together." 1 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest emblem 
of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by 
the ladies ; but when it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both 
hands, and, with the air of a boon companion, struck up an old 
wassail chanson : 2 — 

" The brown bowle, 
The merry brown bowle, 
As it goes round about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a, 

"The deep canne, 
The merry deep canne, 
As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, • 

Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a." 3 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family 
topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great 
deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with 
whom he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack was 
commenced by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the 
dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next the parson, with the 
persevering assiduity of a slowhound, 4 being one of those long- 
winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are un- 
rivaled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause 
in the general conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty 

1 " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having 
his cup. When the steward came to the cloore with the Wassel, he was to 
cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplain) wa? 
to answer with a song." — Archaologia. 

2 Song. 3 From Poor Robin's Almanack. 4 Bloodhound. 



74 IRVING. 

much the same terms, winking hard at me with both eyes when- 
ever he gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. 
The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the subject, 
as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform 
me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously 
fine woman, and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, 
and, though the old hall may have resounded in its time with 
many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it 
ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy 
it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ; 
and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making 
everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles! The joyous dis- 
position of the worthy Squire was perfectly contagious. He was 
happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy ; and 
the little eccentricities of his humor did but season, in a manner, 
the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given up to 
the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind 
of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old 
walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romping games. 
I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly 
at this happy holiday season, and could not help stealing out cf 
the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I 
found them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master Simon, 
who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions 
to fulfill the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule, 1 
was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings were as 
busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff, 2 pinching 

1 " At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever hee was 
lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had ye 
in the house of every nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were he spirit- 
uall or temporall." — Stow. 

2 Sir John Falstaff, one of Shakespeare's characters in The Merry Wives 
of Windsor and in the two parts of Henry IV. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 75 

him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with 
straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen 
hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock 
half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was 
the chief tormentor; and from the slyness with which Master 
Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little 
nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump, shrieking, over chairs, 
I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was 
convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company 
seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply 
ensconced in a high-backed, oaken chair, the work of some cun 
ning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library 
for his particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of 
furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark, weazen face 
so admirably accorded, he was dealing forth strange accounts of 
the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, 
with which he had become acquainted in the course of his anti- 
quarian researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gen- 
tleman was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men 
are very apt to be who live a recluse and studious life in a se- 
questered part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, 
so often filled with the marvelous and supernatural. He gave 
us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry 
concerning the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by 
the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in 
that part of the country, it had always been regarded with feel- 
ings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It was 
said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the church- 
yard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; and one 
old woman, whose cottage bordered on the churchyard, had seen 
it through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, 
slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that 
some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some 
treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and 



76 IRVING. 

restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, 
over which the specter kept watch ; and there was a story cur- 
rent of a sexton in old times, who endeavored to break his way 
to the coffin at night, but, just as he reached it, received a violent 
blow from the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched him 
senseless on the pavement. These tales were often laughed at 
by some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came 
on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of 
venturing alone in the footpath that led across the churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader 
appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the 
vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by 
the servants to have something supernatural about it ; for they 
remarked, that, in whatever part of the hall you went, the eyes 
of the warrior weie still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, 
too, at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the 
family, and was a great gossip among the maid-servants, affirmed 
that in her young days she had often heard say, that on midsum- 
mer eve, when it was well 'known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and 
fairies become visible and walk abroad, the crusader used to 
mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride about the 
house, down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb, 
on which occasion the church door most civilly swung open of 
itself ; not that he needed it, for he rode through closed gates 
and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairy- 
maids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, making 
himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much counte- 
nanced by the Squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was 
very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale 
of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and held the por- 
ter's wife in high favor on account of her talent for the marveloas. 
He was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, 
and often lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a super- 
stitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairyland. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 77 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears 
were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from 
the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of rude 
minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and girlish 
laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train came troop. 
ing into the room, that might almost have been mistaken for the 
breaking-up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit 
Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as Lord of 
Misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or 
masking ; and having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and 
the young officer, who were equally ripe for anything that should 
occasion romping and merriment, they had carried it into instant 
effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique 
clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up 
the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several genera- 
tions. The younger part of the company had been privately con- 
vened from parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out 
into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask. 1 

Master Simon led the van as Ancient Christmas, quaintly ap- 
pareled in a ruff, a short cloak which had very much the aspect of 
one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might have 
served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have figured 
in the days of the Covenanters. 3 From under this, his nose 
curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom that seemed 
the very trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied by 
the blue-eyed romp, dished up as Dame Mince Pie, in the ven- 
erable magnificence of faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked 

1 Irving's Note. — Maskings, or mummeries, were favorite sports at 
Christmas in old times ; and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were 
often laid under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. 
I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jon- 
son's Masque of Christmas. 

2 In Scottish history, the name applied to a party embracing the great ma- 
jority of the people, who, during the seventeenth century, bound themselves 
to establish and maintain the Presbyterian doctrine as the sole religion of 
the country. 



78 IRVING. 

hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as 
Robin Hood, 1 in a sporting dress of Kendal green 2 and a for- 
aging cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep re- 
search, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natural 
to a young gallant in presence of his mistress. The fair Julia 
hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as Maid Marian. 3 The 
rest of the train had been metamorphosed in various ways, — the 
girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the Brace- 
bridge line ; and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and 
gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed 
wigs, to represent the characters of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, 
and other worthies celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole 
was under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate charac- 
ter of Misrule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a mis- 
chievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages of the 
pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, according 
to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and mer- 
riment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the state- 
liness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet 4 
with the peerless though giggling Dame Mince Pie. It was fol- 
lowed by a dance from all the characters, which, from its medley 
of costumes, seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped 
down from their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries 

1 The famous legendary outlaw (born at Locksley, in Notts, in the reign 
of Henry II., 1160). His real name was Fitzooth, and it is commonly said 
he was the Earl of Huntingdon. 

2 Woolen cloth of coarse texture, called Kendal from the town of that 
name in Westmoreland, England, where it was first made. 

3 A name assumed by Matilda, daughter of Robert Lord Fitzwalter, while 
Robin Hood (her lover) remained in a state of outlawry. 

4 A slow, very graceful dance, performed in f or f time ; originated, it is 
said, in Poitou, France, about the middle of the seventeenth century. Its 
name is from the French 1/101 net (Latin, minutes, " small"), the steps taken 
in the dance being; small. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 79 

were figuring at cross hands and right and left : the dark ages 
were cutting pirouettes 1 and rigadoons; 2 and the days of Queen 
Bess jigging merrily down the middle, through a line of succeed- 
ing generations. 

The worthy Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and 
this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of 
childish delight. He stood chuckling, and rubbing his hands, 
and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding 
that the latter was discoursing most authentically on the ancient 
and stately dance of the pavon, or peacock, from which he con- 
ceived the minuet to be derived. 3 For my part, I was in a con- 
tinual excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent 
gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed 
Frolic and warm-hearted Hospitality breaking out from among 
the chills and glooms of winter, and Old Age throwing off his 
apathy, and catching once more the freshness of youthful enjoy- 
ment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from the consideration 
that these fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, and 
that this was perhaps the only family in England in which the 
whole of them were still punctiliously observed. There was a 
quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a pe- 
culiar zest : it was suited to the time and place ; and, as the old 
manor-house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed 
echoing back the joviality of long-departed years. 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols : it is time for me 
to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the question asked 
by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this? How is the 

1 Whirling on the tip of one foot. 

2 French, rigodon. A dance said to have come from Provence, France. 
It is gay and brisk in character. 

3 Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called pavon, from pavo (" a 
peacock"), says, " It is a grave and majestic dance; the method of dancing 
it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the 
long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in 
gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a 
peacock. " — History of Music. 



So IRVING. 

world to be made wiser by this talk? " Alas! is there not wis- 
dom enough extant for the instruction of the world? and if not, 
are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improve- 
ment? It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct, — to 
play the companion rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I .could throw into 
the mass of knowledge, or how am I sure that my sagest deduc- 
tions may be safe guides for the opinions of others? But in 
writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disappoint- 
ment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of 
evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the 
heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then 
penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a 
benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in 
good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, — surely, surely, 
I shall not then have written entirely in vain. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the 
latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and 
evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the de- 
cline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about West- 
minster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season 
In the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, as I passed 
its threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the regions of 
antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. 

1 The coronation church of the sovereigns of England from the time of 
Harold (1066). It occupies the site of a chapel built by Siebert in honor of 
St. Peter, on a slightly elevated spot rising from the marshy ground border- 
ing the Thames. The Abbey was fifteen years in building, and was the first 
cruciform church in England. It contains the tombs and monuments of 
many of the sovereigns of Great Britain, and the memorials of England's 
greatest men in all walks of life. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK'. Si 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, 1 through 
a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean 
look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in 
the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant 
view of the cloisters, 2 with the figure of an old verger 3 in his 
black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming 
like a specter from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach 
to the Abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares 
the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloister still retains 
something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray 
walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat 
of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural 
monuments, and obscured the death's heads and other funeral 
emblems ; the sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich 
tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the keystones 
have lost their leafy beauty; everything bears marks of the 
gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching 
and pleasing in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
square of the cloisters, beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in 
the center, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with 
a kind of dusty splendor. From between the arcades the eye 
glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud, and beheld 
the sun-gilt pinnacles of the Abbey towering into the azure 
heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled 
picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to deci- 

1 This school was in existence in 1540, established by charter of Henry 
VIII. Under the reign of Mary the whole school was swept away. It was 
restored by Elizabeth in 1560, who gave to the college the statutes which are 
more or less observed to this day. 

2 Old French, cloistre; Latin, claustmm. That which shuts off; in 
monastic buildings, an arched passage, usually running about an interior 
court, and used as a place of recreation for monks. 

3 Old French, vergier; Latin, virga ("a rod"). A church officer who 
bore the verge or staff of office for ecclesiastical dignitaries. 



82 IRVING. 

pher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pave« 
ment beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, 
rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of 
many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early 
abbots. The epitaphs were entirely effaced. The names alone 
remained, having, no doubt, been renewed in later times, — Vita- 
lis 1 (Abbas, 1082), and Gislebertus Crispinus 2 (Abbas, 1 1 14), and 
Laurentius 3 (Abbas, 1176). I remained some little while, mus- 
ing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks 
upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such 
beings had been and had perished ; teaching no moral but the 
futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its 
ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even 
these faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will 
cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon 
these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the Abbey clock, 
reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the 
cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed 
time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, 
which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. 

I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the in- 
terior of the Abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the 

1 Vitalis was a Norman. He was an abbot at Bernay in Normandy, and 
was expressly sent for by the King (William the Conqueror) to govern at 
Westminster. He had the character of a wise and prudent man. He died 
June 19, 1082, and was interred in the south cloister. 

2 Gislebertus Crispinus (Gilbert Crispin) was a Norman of noble rank. 
He was particularly famous as a sound theologist and a ready disputant. 
After a long life of piety and good deeds, he died Dec. 6, 11 14, and was 
buried at the feet of Vitalis, his predecessor. 

3 Laurentius (or Lawrence) was educated, and resided for many years, at 
St. Albans. He was chosen for Westminster Abbey about the year 11 59, 
through the influence of Henry II., who thought highly of him. He was a 
man of talents. He was appointed by the King, the Pope, and the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, to decide several disputed causes. He was buried in 
the south walk of the cloister. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 83 

building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults 
of the cloisters. The eye gazes with wonder at clustered col- 
umns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to 
such an amazing height ; and man wandering about their bases, 
shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. 
The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a pro- 
found and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, 
as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb ; while 
every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among the 
sepulchers, making us more sensible of the quiet we have inter- 
rupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon 
the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We 
feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the 
great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, 
and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a 
smile at the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are 
crowded together and jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is 
observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little 
portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could 
not satisfy; and how many shapes and forms and artifices are 
devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from 
forgetfulness for a few short years a name which once aspired to 
occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, 1 which occupies an end 
of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the Abbey. The monu- 
ments are generally simple, for the lives of literary men afford 
no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare 2 and Addison 3 
have statues erected to their memories ; but the greater part have 

1 The poet Chaucer, who died Oct. 25, 1400, was the first to be buried 
in Poet's Corner, through the royal favor of Henry IV. ; but no monument 
was placed over him until during the reign of Edward VI., in 1551. 

2 The remains of Shakespeare (1 564-1616) were never moved from Strat- 
ford, but a monument was erected in the Abbey in 1740. 

3 Addison (1672-1719) is buried in the chapel of Henry VII., in the vault 



84 IRVING. 

busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwith- 
standing the simplicity of these memorials, I have always ob- 
served that the visitors to the Abbey remain longest about 
them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold 
curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splen- 
did monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about 
these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for, indeed, 
there is something of companionship between the author and the 
reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the me- 
dium of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure ; 
but the intercourse between the author and his fellowmen is ever 
new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than 
for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut 
himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more 
intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well 
may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been purchased, 
not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispen- 
sation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his mem- 
ory ; for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and 
sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of 
thought, and golden veins of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part of 
the Abbey which contains the sepulchers of the kings. I wan- 
dered among what once were chapels, but which are now occu- 
pied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn 
I met with some illustrious name, or the cognizance of some 
powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these 
dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies, — 
some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon 
the tombs, with hands piously pressed together ; warriors in ar- 
mor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates with crosiers and miters ; 
and nobles in robes and coronets, lying, as it were, in state. In 

of the House of Albemarle. A monument of him stands in the Poet's Cor- 
ner, and was erected in 1808. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 85 

glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every 
form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading 
a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been sud- 
denly transmuted into stone. 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a 
knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; 
the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast ; 
the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were 
crossed, in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy 
war. It was the tomb of a crusader, — of one of those military 
enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and 
whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction, 
between the history and the fairy tale. There is something ex- 
tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated 
as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. 
They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are 
generally found ; and in considering them, the imagination is apt 
to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fictions, 
the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread 
over the wars for the sepulcher of Christ. They are the relics of 
times utterly gone by, of beings passed from recollection, of cus- 
toms and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are 
like objects from some strange and distant land, of which we 
have no certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions 
are vague and visionary. There is something extremely solemn 
and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the 
sleep of death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They 
have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than 
the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical 
groups, which abound on modern monuments. I have been 
struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral 
inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of say- 
ing things simply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do not 
know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family 
worth and honorable lineage than one which affirms, of a noble 



86 IRVING. 

house, that " all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters vir- 
tuous." 1 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument 
which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art, 
but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the 
tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, 2 by Roubiliac. 3 The bottom of the 
monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and 
a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from 
his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is 
sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain 
and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with 
terrible truth and spirit : we almost fancy we hear the gibbering 
yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the specter. 
But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary 
terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love? 
The grave should be surrounded by everything that might inspire 
tenderness and veneration for the dead, or that might win the 
living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but 
of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, 
studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence 
from without occasionally reaches the ear, — the rumbling of the 
passing equipage, the murmur of the multitude, or perhaps the 

1 A portion of the inscription upon the tomb of " the loyal " Duke of New- 
castle and the Duchess. This nobleman was one of the firmest supporters 
of Charles I. 

2 In memory of Joseph Gascoigne Nightingale, Esq., of Minehead, Dev- 
onshire, who died in 1752 ; and the Lady Elizabeth, his wife, who died soon 
after marriage. A tradition of the Abbey records that a robber, coming into 
the Abbey by moonlight, was so startled by the figure as to have fled in dis- 
may, and left his crowbar on the pavement. 

3 Roubiliac (1695-1762) was an able French sculptor, born at Lyons. He 
settled in London in 1720, and soon became the most popular sculptor of 
the time in England. His chief works in the Abbey are the monuments of 
Handel, Admiral Warren, Marshal Wade, Mrs. Nightingale, and the Duke 
of Argyll. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 87 

light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the death- 
like repose around ; and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, 
thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating 
against the very walls of the sepulcher. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from 
chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the 
distant tread of loiterers about the Abbey grew less and less fre- 
quent ; the sweet- tongued bell was summoning to evening prayer ; 
and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, 
crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the en- 
trance to Henry VII. 's Chapel. 1 A flight of steps leads up to it, 
through a deep and gloomy but magnificent arch. Great gates 
of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their 
hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mor- 
tals into this most gorgeous of sepulchers. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architect- 
ure, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very 
walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, 
and scooped into niches crowded with the statues of saints and 
martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to 
have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft as 
if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful 
minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights 
of the Bath 2 richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque dec- 

1 Designed by Henry VII. as a burying place for himself and his success- 
ors ; and he expressly enjoined in his will that none but those of royal blood 
should be buried there. The first to be buried there was his wife, Elizabeth 
of York, who died in 1503. Six years later he died, and was buried by the 
side of his queen, not in the raised tomb, but in the vault beneath. His effigy 
was completed within twenty years after his death, by Torrigiano, a Floren- 
tine sculptor. 

2 This Order of the Knights of the Bath originated, it is said, in 1399, at 
Henry IV. 's coronation. In the earlier coronations it had been the practice 
of the sovereigns to create a number of knights before they started on their 
procession from the Tower. These knights, being made in time of peace, 



88 IRVING. 

orations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls 
are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs 
and swords ; and above them are suspended their banners, em- 
blazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of 
gold and purple and crimson with the cold, gray fretwork of the 
roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulcher 
of its founder, 1 — his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on 
a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly 
wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange 
mixture of tombs and trophies, these emblems of living and aspir- 
ing ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and 
oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing 
impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to 
tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. 
On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their 
esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were 
once borne before them, my imagination conjured up the scene 
when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land, 
glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military array, 
alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring 
multitude. All had passed away : the silence of death had set- 
tled again upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirp- 
ing of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built 
their nests among its friezes and pendants, — sure signs of soli- 
tariness and desertion. 

were not enrolled in any existing order, and for a long period had no special 
designation ; but inasmuch as one of the most striking and characteristic parts 
of their admission was the complete ablution of their persons on the eve of 
their knighthood, as an emblem of the cleanliness and purity of their profes- 
sion, they were called " Knights of the Bath." The King himself bathed on 
this occasion with them. The ceremony took place at Westminster ; the 
bath, in the Painted or Prince's Chamber ; and the vigils, either before the 
Confessor's shrine or in Henry VII. 's Chapel. 

1 Edward the Confessor (1004-66). He acceded to the throne in 1043. 
He rebuilt the ancient Abbey of Westminster. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 89 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were 
those of men scattered far and wide about the world, some toss- 
ing upon distant seas, some under arms in distant lands, some 
mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets, all seeking 
to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy hon- 
ors, — the melancholy reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touch- 
ing instance of the equality of the grave, which brings down the 
oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of 
the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulcher of the 
haughty Elizabeth r 1 in the other is that of her victim, the lovely 
and unfortunate Mary. 2 Not an hour in the day but some ejacu- 
lation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulcher 
continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave 
of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies 
buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by 
dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the 
walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble 
figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an 
iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem, — the 
thistle. 3 I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself 

1 Elizabeth (born in 1533) reigned as Queen of England from 1558 to 1603, 
when she died. She was the last of the Tudors, and was called " the lion- 
hearted Elizabeth." James I. had the body of Queen Elizabeth taken from 
the Cathedral Church of Peterborough, and a monument erected over her in 
Westminster Abbey. 

2 Mary Queen of Scots, daughter of James V. of Scotland, was born it> 
1542. She was charged by Queen Elizabeth with having entered into a con- 
spiracy against the life of the latter, and ordered to be executed. Queen 
Elizabeth signed the death warrant on the 1st of February, 1587; and on the 
morning of the 8th of February, Mary Queen of Scots, protesting her inno- 
cence, was beheaded. 

* Th^ thistle, which gives name to the Scottish order, is also an heraldic 
jearing in that country. 



go IRVING. 

by the monument, revolving in my mind the checkered and disas- 
trous story of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the Abbey. I 
could only hear now and then the distant voice of the priest re- 
peating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir. 
These paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the 
desertion and obscurity, that were gradually prevailing around 
gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 

No careful father's counsel, — nothing's heard, 

For nothing is, but all oblivion, 

Dust and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the 
ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as 
it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and 
grandeur accord with this mighty building! With what pomp 
do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful 
harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sep- 
ulcher vocal ! And now they rise in triumph and acclamation;, 
heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound 
on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir 
break out into sweet gushes of melody : they soar aloft and war- 
ble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults 
like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves 
its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it 
forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! What solemn 
sweeping concords! It grows more and more dense and power- 
ful ; it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls ; the ear 
is stunned ; the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding 
up in full jubilee. It is rising from the earth to heaven. The 
very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling 
tide of harmony. 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain 
of music is apt sometimes to inspire. The shadows of evening 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. Ql 

were gradually thickening around me, the monuments began to 
cast deeper and deeper gloom, and the distant clock again gave 
token of the slowly waning day. 

I rose, and prepared to leave the Abbey. As I descended the 
flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye 
was caught by the shrine 1 of Edward the Confessor ; and I as- 
cended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence 
a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is ele- 
vated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepul- 
chers of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye 
looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels 
and chambers below, crowded with tombs, where warriors, prel- 
ates, courtiers, and statesmen lie moldering in their " beds of 
darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, 2 
rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and 
Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with the- 
atrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here 
was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and 
power : here it was literally but a step from the throne to the 
sepulcher. Would not one think that these incongruous memen- 
tos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? — 
to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the 
neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive ; how soon that 
crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie 
down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled 

1 Erected by Henry III. on the canonizing of Edward, King of England, 
by Pope Alexander III., who caused his name to be placed in the catalogue 
of saints. The shrine was the work of the Italian artist Cavallini. This 
shrine was 2 constant object of pilgrimages from all parts of England all 
through the middle ages. 

2 This chair must have been specially constructed for the reception of the 
famous stone which Edward I. brought from Scotland in 1296. It has been 
constantly used at coronations ever since. The coronation takes place while 
the sovereign is seated in the chair. The last time it was brought out from 
the chapel where it stands was at the Jubilee Thanksgiving service (i£ 
when the Queen sat in it during the ceremonial. 



92 IRVING. 

upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude : for, strange to 
tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a 
shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to sport with 
awful and hallowed things ; and there are base minds, which 
delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and 
groveling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin of 
Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains 
despoiled of their funeral ornaments ; the scepter has been stolen 
from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth ; and the effigy of 
Henry V. lies headless. 1 Not a royal monument but bears some 
proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some 
are plundered, some mutilated, some covered with ribaldry and 
insult, all more or less outraged and dishonored. 

The last beams of day were new faintly streaming through the 
painted windows in the high vaults above me. The lower parts 
of the Abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. 
The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of 
the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the monu- 
ments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the even- 
ing breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the 
grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the 
Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. 
I slowly retraced my morning's walk ; and as I passed out at 
the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise 
behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already 
falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, 
trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though 
I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, 
thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchers, but a treasury of 

1 The effigy is said to have originally been plated with silver, and the head 
to have been of solid silver. Nothing is now left but the wooden form upon 
which the gilded plates were fastened. Henry V. was King of England from 
1413 to 1422. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 93 

humiliation, — a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness 
of renown and the certainty of oblivion? It is, indeed, the em- 
pire of Death ; his great, shadowy palace, where he sits in state, 
mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and 
forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, 
after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently 
turning over his pages. We are too much engrossed by the story 
of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave 
interest to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to 
be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of 
yesterday out of our recollection, and will, in turn, be supplanted 
by his successor of to-morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas 
Brown, 1 " find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell 
us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into 
fable, fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy, the 
inscription molders from the tablet, the statue falls from the ped- 
estal. Columns, arches, pyramids — what are they but heaps 
of sand, and their epitaphs but characters written in the dust? 
What is the security of the tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalm- 
ment? The remains of Alexander the Great 2 have been scattered 
to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity 
of a museum. "The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses 3 or 

1 A distinguished English writer, born in London in 1605. He graduated 
at Oxford in 1626; studied medicine and practiced in Oxfordshire, and re- 
ceived the degree of M.D. at the University of Leyden. He published a 
work, Religio Medici, which was a success, and he became celebrated as a 
man of letters. In 1671 he was made a knight by Charles II. 

2 Alexander III. (commonly called "the Great") was born at Pella, 
356 B.C. He was a great warrior, and successful in all his exploits, conquer- 
ing all the world then known. He died after a reign of less than thirteen 
years, and before he had reached the age of thirty-three. 

3 The elder son and successor of Cyrus, who reigned over the Persian 
Empire for seven years and five months (529-521 B.C.). He made a conquest 
of Egypt in 525 B.C. He assumed the responsibilities and titles proper to 
a king of Egypt, taking as his throne name that of " Kambath-Remesot, 
Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt." 



94 IRVING. 

time hath spared, avarice now consumeth. Mizraim 1 cures 
wounds, and Pharaoh 2 is sold for balsams." 3 

What, then, is to insure this pile which now towers above me 
from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time must 
come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie 
in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of mel- 
ody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, 
and the owl hoot from the shattered tower ; when the garish sun- 
beam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the 
ivy twine round the fallen column, and the fox-glove hang its 
blossoms about the nameless urn as if in mockery of the dead. 
Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record and rec- 
ollection ; his history is as a tale that is told ; and his very 
monument becomes a ruin. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

[Found among the Papers of the Late Diedrich Knickerbocker.] 

"A pleasing land of drozvsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half shut eye, 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer shy." 

Castle of Indolence.* 

IN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent trie 
eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the 
river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan 

1 Mizraim, or Mizri, is the Hebrew name for Egypt. 

2 The title of Pharaoh was applied to the kings of Egypt, from Menes to 
Solomon. 

3 From Sir T. Brown. In the sixteenth and part of the seventeenth cen- 
turies, mummy formed one of the ordinary drugs, and was found in the shops 
of all the apothecaries. Tombs were searched, and as many mummies as 
could be obtained were broken into pieces for the purpose of sale. Physi- 
cians of all nations commonly prescribed it in cases of bruises and wounds. 

4 James Thomson (1700-48) was the son of a Scotch minister, and author 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 95 

Zee, 1 and where they always prudently shortened sail, and im- 
plored the protection of St. Nicholas 2 when they crossed, there 
lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called 
Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known 
by the name of " Tarrytown." 3 This name was given it, we 
are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent 
country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to lin- 
ger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, 
I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it for the sake 
of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, per- 
haps about three miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of 
land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the 
whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur 
enough to lull one to repose ; and the occasional whistle of a 
quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that 
ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect, that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel- 
shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side 
of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all na- 
ture is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own 
gun, as it broke the sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged 
and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for 
a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distrac- 

of The Seasons, which gave him a great reputation. The Castle of Indo- 
lence, from which the above verse is quoted, was his last work, and was pub- 
lished the year he died. Till the advent of Scott and Byron, Thomson was 
the most widely popular poet in our language. 

1 The expansion of the Hudson River between Haverstraw and Piermont, 
having a length of about twelve miles, and a breadth in the neighborhood of 
from four to five miles. 

2 Bishop of Myra in the fourth century. He was also the mariner's 
saint, and is the present patron of those who lead a seafaring life (as Nep- 
tune was of old). 

3 Tarrytown is twenty-seven miles from New York. It is famous both 
historically and from its connection with Washington Irving, whose cottage, 
'' Sunnyside," is in the vicinity. 



96 IRVING. 

tions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I 
know of none more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar char- 
acter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original 
Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by 
the name of " Sleepy Hollow," and its rustic lads are called the 
" Sleepy Hollow Boys " throughout all the neighboring country. 
A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and 
to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was 
bewitched by a high German doctor during the early days of the 
settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wiz- 
ard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was 
discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. 1 Certain it is, the 
place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that 
holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to 
walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of mar- 
velous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions ; and frequently 
see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The 
whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, 
and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener 
across the valley than in any other part of the country ; and the 
nightmare, with her whole ninefold, 2 seems to make it the favor- 
ite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted re- 
gion, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of 
the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. 
It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian 3 trooper, whose 

1 A distinguished English navigator, who made four voyages, attempting 
to find a shorter passage to China than by the way of the Cape of Good Hope. 
On the third of these voyages he entered the bay now called New York Bay, 
and (Sept. n, 1609) sailed up what is now the Hudson River. During his 
fourth voyage, two years later, he penetrated the straits and discovered the 
great bay of Canada which now bears his name. Here his mutinous sailors 
cast him adrift in a small boat, and left him to die. 

2 See King Lear, act iii. sc. 4. 

3 These Hessians came from a province of western Germany called Hesse 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 97 

head had been carried away by a cannon-ball in some nameless 
battle during the Revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon 
seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as 
if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the 
valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially 
to the vicinity of a church that is at no great distance. Indeed, 
certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have 
been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concern- 
ing this specter, allege that, the body of the trooper having been 
buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of 
battle in nightly quest of his head ; and that the rushing speed 
with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like a midnight 
blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back 
to the churchyard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
region of shadows ; and the specter is known at all the country 
firesides by the name of " The Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
Hollow." 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have men- 
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but 
is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a 
time. However wide-awake they may have been before they 
entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale 
the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, 
— to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud : for it is in 
such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there em- 
bosomed in the great State of New York, that population, 
manners, and customs remain fixed ; while the great torrent of 
migration and improvement, which is making such incessant 
changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them 

CasseJ. They were brought to America by the British in 1776, having been 
hired by them to fight against the American troops. 
7 



98 IRVING. 

unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water which 
border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble 
riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic har- 
bor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though 
many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of 
Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find 
the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered 
bosom. 

In this by-place of Nature there abode, in a remote period of 
American history, — that is to say, some thirty years since, — a 
worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, 
as he expressed it, " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose 
of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of 
Connecticut, — a State which supplies the Union with pioneers 
for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 
legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The 
cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was 
tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might 
have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung 
together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, 
large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked 
like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which 
way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a 
hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about 
him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine de- 
scending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a corn- 
field. 

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely 
constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, and partly 
patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously 
secured at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the handle of the 
door, and stakes set against the window-shutters ; so that, though 
a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some em- 
barrassment in getting out, — an idea most probably borrowed 






THE SKETCH-BOOK. 99 

by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel- 
pot. 1 The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant 
situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running 
close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. 
P'rom hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over 
their lessons, might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the 
hum of a beehive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative 
voice of the master in the tone of menace or command, or, per- 
adventure, by the appalling sound of the birch as he urged some 
tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to 
say, he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in mind the 
golden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." 2 Ichabod 
Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of 
those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their 
subjects : on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimi- 
nation rather than severity ; taking the burthen off the backs of 
the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny 
stripling, that winced at the least nourish of the rod, was passed 
by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were satisfied by 
inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, 
broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew 
dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called " doing 
his duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisement 
without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smart- 
ing urchin, that " he would remember it and thank him for it the 
longest day he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the companion 
and playmate of the larger boys, and on holiday afternoons would 
convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have 
pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the 

1 A box or basket for catching eels. The only opening is at the bottom of 
a funnel-shaped entrance, and is so small and so located, that, having entered 
it, the eels cannot easily find it again in order to get out. 

2 King Solomon's. 

LofC. 



ioo IRVING. 

comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on 
good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school 
was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 
with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, 
had the dilating powers of an anaconda; 1 but to help out his 
maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, 
boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children 
he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time ; 
thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly 
effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his 
rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a 
grievous burthen, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had vari- 
ous ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He 
assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their 
farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to 
water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter 
fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute 
sway with which he lorded it in his little empire the school, and 
became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in 
the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the 
youngest ; and like " the lion bold," which whilom so magnani- 
mously "the lamb did hold," 2 he would sit with a child on one 
knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master 
of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by 
instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no 
little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of the 

1 A reptile possessing extraordinary powers of dilation. It kills by con- 
striction. 

2 The New England Primer, published in Walpole, N.H., in 1814, con- 
tains an illustrated alphabet. The letter L is illustrated by a lion with one 
of its paws resting upon a lamb which is lying down, and the following 
lines : — 

" The Lion bold 
The Lamb doth hold.'' 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. ioi 

church gallery with a band of chosen singers, where, in his own 
mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. 1 
Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the 
congregation ; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in 
that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite 
to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, 
which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of 
Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts in that ingen- 
ious way which is commonly denominated " by hook and by 
crook," 2 the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 
thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, 
to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the 
female circle of a rural neighborhood, being considered a kind 
of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and ac- 
complishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior 
in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is 
apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, 
and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweet- 
meats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man 
of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the 
country damsels. How he would figure among them in the 
churchyard, between services on Sundays ! gathering grapes for 
them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees ; re- 
citing for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; 
or sauntering with a whole bevy of them along the banks of the 
adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful country bumpkins 
hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itineiant life, also, he was a kind of traveling 

1 Surpassed the parson in point of excellence. 

2 Formerly the poor of a manor were allowed to go into the forests with a 
hook and crook to get wood. What they could not reach, they might pull 
down with their crook. This sort of living was very precarious, but eagerly 
sought. Boundary stones, beyond which " the hook and crook folk" might 
not pass, exist still. 



102 IRVING. 

gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to 
house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfac- 
tion. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of 
great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and 
was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's 1 " History of New Eng- 
land Witchcraft;" in which, by the way, he most firmly and 
potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and sim- 
ple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his powers 
of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had been 
increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale 
was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was 
often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, 
to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little 
brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over 
old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening 
made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he 
wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to 
the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound 
of Nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination, 
— the moan of the whip-poor-will 2 from the hillside ; the boding 
cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the dreary hooting 
of the screech-owl ; or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds 
frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled 
most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as 
one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path ; and 
if by chance a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his 

1 A celebrated theologian and writer, born in Boston in 1663. He was 
ordained as a minister in 1684, and preached in Boston. From the first he 
was eager to bring to trial and punishment those supposed to be guilty of 
witchcraft ; and, when others began clearly to see the folly and injustice of 
these cruel persecutions, he earnestly, though vainly, strove to stem the reac- 
tion in the popular mind. 

2 A whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives its 
name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 103 

blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give 
up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's 
token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown 
thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; and 
the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of 
an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, 
" in linked sweetness long drawn out," * floating from the distant 
hill or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long 
winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning 
by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along 
the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and gob- 
lins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, 
and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, 
or "Galloping Hessian of the Hollow," as they sometimes called 
him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witch- 
craft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds 
in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut, 2 
and would frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets 
and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the world did 
absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy- 
turvy. 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in 
the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow 
from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no specter 
dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors 
of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and 
shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a 
snowy night! With what wistful look did he eye every trem- 
bling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some dis- 

1 From Milton's L' Allegro. 

2 In New England, in 1692, many people believed in witches. Such firm 
believers svere they in witchcraft, that it was very easy to create a suspicion 
against a person as a witch. Many were thrown into prison, and some were 
hung, in consequence. 



104 IRVING. 

tant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub cov- 
ered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, beset his very 
path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound 
of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread 
to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth 
being tramping close behind him! and how often was he thrown 
into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the 
trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his 
nightly scourings! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms 
of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he had seen 
many specters in his time, and been more than once beset by 
Satan in divers shapes in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight 
put an end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleas- 
ant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path 
had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to 
mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches 
put together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled one evening in 
each week to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina 
Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch 
farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a 
partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her 
father's peaches ; and universally famed, not merely for her 
beauty, but her vast expectations. She was, withal, a little of a 
coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a 
mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off 
her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which 
her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam ; x 
the tempting stomacher of the olden time ; and, withal, a pro- 
vokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle 
in the country round. 

1 Zaandam, Zaanredam, or Saardam, is a village of Holland in the prov- 
ince of North Holland, five miles by rail from Amsterdam. Peter the Great 
of Russia wrought at Saardam as a ship carpenter in 1697. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 105 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex ; 
and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon 
found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her 
in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect 
picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He sel- 
dom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
boundaries of his own farm ; but within these everything was 
snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his 
wealth, but not proud of it, and piqued himself upon the hearty 
abundance rather than the style in which he lived. His strong- 
hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those 
green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so 
fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches 
over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest 
and sweetest water in a little well formed of a barrel, and then 
stole sparkling away through the grass to a neighboring brook 
that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by 
the farmhouse was a vast barn that might have served for a 
church, every window and crevice of which seemed bursting 
forth with the treasures of the farm. The flail was busily re- 
sounding within it from morning to night ; swallows and martins 
skimmed twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons — 
some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather ; some 
with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms ; 
and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames 
— were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy 
porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their 
pens ; from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of suck- 
ing pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy 
geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets 
of ducks. Regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the 
farmyard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it like ill-tempered 
housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the 
barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, 
^ warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings 



106 IRVING. 

and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart, sometimes 
tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling 
his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich 
morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon this sump- 
tuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's 
eye he pictured to himself every roasting pig running about " with 
a pudding in its belly " 1 and an apple in its mouth ; the pigeons 
were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with 
a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy ; 
and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, 
with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw 
carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy, relishing 
ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its giz- 
zard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sau- 
sages ; and even bright chanticleer 2 himself lay sprawling on his 
back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quar- 
ter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled 
his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of 
wheat, of rye, of buckwheat and Indian corn, and the orchards 
burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement 
of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to in- 
herit these domains ; and his imagination expanded with the idea, 
how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money in- 
vested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the 
wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and 
presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of 
children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household 

1 From Shakespeare, Henry IV., Part I. act ii. sc. 4. 

2 A cock. Old French, chantecler (from chanter, "to sing;" and cler, 
" clear"), the name of the cock in the poem Reynard the Fox. The Middle 
English forms of the word were ckauntecleer, chaitnteclcre, chantcciere. 
Compare Chaucer, Nun's Priest's Tale, 1. 501: "This chauntecleer his 
wynges gan to bete." 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 1 07 

trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld 
himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting 
out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was com- 
plete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged 
but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the 
first Dutch settlers ; the low, projecting eaves forming a piazza 
along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Un- 
der this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, 
and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built 
along the sides for summer use ; and a great spinning-wheel at 
one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to 
which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza 
the wonderful Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the center 
of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of 
resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 
In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun ; in 
another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey 1 just from the loom. Ears 
of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in 
gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red pep- 
pers : and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, 
where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone 
like mirrors ; and irons, with their accompanying shovel and 
tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops ; mock- 
oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece ; strings 
of various colored bird's eggs were suspended above it ; a great 
ostrich egg was hung from the center of the room ; and a corner 
cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of 
old silver and well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of 
delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study 
was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van 
Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties 

l Coarse cloth, having a linen warp and a woolen woof. 



108 IRVING. 

than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant 1 of yore, who sel« 
dom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such- 
like easily conquered adversaries to contend with ; and had to 
make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls 
of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was 
confined, — all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve 
his way to the center of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave 
him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, 
had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with 
a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever present- 
ing new difficulties and impediments ; and he had to encounter a 
host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous 
rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a 
watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in 
the common cause against any new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roys- 
tering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch 
abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, 
which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was 
broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short, curly black hair, 
and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air 
of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great pow- 
ers of limb, he had received the nickname of " Brom Bones," by 
which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowl- 
edge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback 
as a Tartar. 2 He was foremost at all races and cock-fights, and, 
with the ascendency which bodily strength always acquires in 
rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one 
side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted 
of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight 
or a frolic ; had more mischief than ill will in his composition ; 
and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash 

1 A knight who wandered in search of adventure. 

2 The Tartars were a nomadic tribe of Central Asia, noted for their fine 
horsemanship. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK, 109 

of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three or four boon 
companions of his own stamp, who regarded him as their model, 
and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every 
scene of feud or merriment for miles around. In cold weather 
he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting 
fox's tail ; and when the folks at a country gathering descried 
this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a 
squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Some- 
times his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses 
at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cos- 
sacks ; 1 and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would 
listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and 
then exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang! " The 
neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, 
and good will, and, when any madcap prank or rustic brawl oc- 
curred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted 
Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole 2 hero had for some time singled out the bloom- 
ing Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though 
his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and 
endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not 
altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were 
signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to 
cross a lion in his amours ; insomuch, that when his horse was 
seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on a Sunday night, — a sure sign 
that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," 
within, — all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the 
war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom IchabocS Crane had 
to contend ; and, considering all things, a stouter man than he 
would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would 

1 The Russian tribes who settled on the River Don. They are a restless 
and warlike race. They form a first-rate irregular cavalry, and render excel 
lent service as scouts and skirmishers. 

2 Wild. 



no IRVING. 

have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability 
and perseverance in his nature. He was in form and spirit like 
a supple-jack, — yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never 
broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, 
the moment it was away — jerk! he was as erect, and carried his 
head as high, as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have 
been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
amours, any more than that stormy lover Achilles. 1 Ichabod, 
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating 
manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he 
made frequent visits at the farmhouse ; not that he had anything 
to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, 
which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait 
Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul. He loved his daughter 
better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an ex- 
cellent father, let her have her way in everything. His notable 
little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping 
and manage the poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and 
geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can 
take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled 
about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the 
piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the 
other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, 
armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the 
wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time Ichabod 
would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the 
spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, 
that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

1 A famous Greek warrior of Homer's Iliad. Achilles, in a dispute about 
fiis lady-love Briseis, becomes angered against Agamemnon, commander-in- 
chief of the allied Greeks besieging Troy or Ilion (hence the name " Iliad "), 
and refuses to fight. The Trojans prevail for a time. Patroclus, Achilles' 
friend, falls ; and Achilles in wrath flies to battle, kills Hector (chief of the 
Trojans), and turns the tide of battle against them. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. Ill 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. 
To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. 
Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access ; 
while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a 
thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain 
the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain 
possession of the latter, for a man must battle for his fortress at 
every door and window. He who wins a thousand common 
hearts is therefore entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps 
undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. 
Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom 
Bones ; and, from the moment Ichabod Crane made his ad- 
vances, the interests of the former evidently declined. His horse 
was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a 
deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of 
Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would 
fain have carried matters to open warfare, and settled their pre- 
tensions to the lady according to the mode of those most concise 
and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore, by single com- 
bat ; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his 
adversary to enter the lists against him. He had overheard the 
boast of Bones, that he would " double the schoolmaster up and 
put him on a shelf;" and he was too wary to give him an oppor- 
tunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obsti 
nately pacific system : it left Brom no alternative but to draw 
upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play 
off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the 
object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough 
riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out 
his singing-school by stopping up the chimney ; broke into the 
schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe 
and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy : so that 
the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the coun- 
try held their meetings there. But, what was still more annoying, 



H2 IRVING. 

Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in pres- 
ence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to 
whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of 
Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without producing 
any material effect on the relative situations of the contending 
powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive; 
mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually 
watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand 
he swayed a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of; 
justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror 
to evil doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen sun- 
dry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon 
the persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, pop- 
guns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper 
game-cocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of 
justice recently inflicted ; for his scholars were all busily intent 
upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye s 
kept upon the master, and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned 
throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the 
appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, a round- 
crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, 1 and 
mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which' 
he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering 
up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a 
merry-making, or " quilting frolic," to be held that evening at 
Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his message with 
that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro 
is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over 
the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of 
the importance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. 
The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping 

1 The Roman god who presided over barter, trade, and all commercial 
dealings. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 113 

at trifles. Those who were nimble skipped over half with im- 
punity ; and those who were tardy had a smart application now 
and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a 
tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on 
the shelves ; inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down ; 
and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual 
time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and 
racketing about the green, in joy at their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at 
his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best and indeed only suit 
of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken look- 
ing-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make 
his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, 
he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domi- 
ciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Rip- 
per, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant 
in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit 
'of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments 
of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken- 
down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but his 
! viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck, and 
a head like a hammer. His rusty mane and tail were tangled 
and knotted with burrs. One eye had lost its pupil, and was 
■glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine 
devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if 
we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. He had, 
'in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van 
Ripper, who w T as a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, 
some of his own spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken-down 
as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in 
any young filly in the country. 

1 Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with 
short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel 
of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he 
carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a scepter ; and, 



H4 IRVING. 

as the horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the 
flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top 
of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called ; 
and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's 
tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they 
shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper ; and it was alto- 
gether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad 
daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day. The sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery 
which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The 
forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some 
trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frost into bril- 
liant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild 
ducks began to make their appearance high in the air. The bark 
of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hick- 
ory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from 
the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the 
fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, 
from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very 
profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock- 
robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud, 
querulous note ; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable 
clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson! 
crest, his broad, black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and tlje 
cedar bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and 1 
its little monteiro cap 1 of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy 
coxcomb, in his gay, light-blue coat and white underclothes, 
screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, 
and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the 
grove. 

1 Montero cap (Spanish, montero), a kind of cap, originally a hunting- 
cap; from montero (" a huntsman"). It has a spherical crown, and a flap 
round it that may be drawn down over the ears. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 1 15 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to 
svery symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over 
:he treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store 
if apples, — some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees, 
some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, others 
heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he be- 
held great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping 
from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes 
and hasty pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath 
them, turning up their fair, round bellies to the sun, and giving 
ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he 
passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the 
beehive ; and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his 
mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey 
or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van 
Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and " sugared 
suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills 
which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty 
Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into 
the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and 
glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved, 
and prolonged the blue shadow Of the distant mountain. A few 
amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move 
them. The horizon was of a fine, golden tint, changing grad- 
ually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the deep-blue 
of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests 
of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving 
greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. 
A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with 
the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast ; and, as the 
reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as 
if the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of 
the Herr Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride 



Ii6 IRVING. 

and flower of the adjacent country, — old farmers, a spare, leath- 
ern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, 
huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles ; their brisk, withered 
little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, home- 
spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico 
pockets hanging on the outside ; buxom lasses, almost as anti- 
quated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine 
ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city inno- 
vations ; the sons, in short, square-skirted coats with rows of 
stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the 
fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin 
for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a 
potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come 
to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, — a creature, 
like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but 
himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring 
vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider 
in constant risk of his neck ; for he held a tractable, well-broken 
horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that 
burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the 
state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion ; not those of the bevy of 
buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white, but 
the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the 
sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes 
of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experi- 
enced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, 
the tender oly-koek, 1 and the crisp and crumbling cruller; 
sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and 
the whole family of cakes ; and then there were apple pies and 
peach pies and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked 
beef ; and, moreover, delectable dishes of preserved plums, and 

1 A kind of Dutch cake, made of dough sweetened, and fried in lard. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 117 

oeaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to mention broiled shad 
ind roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and cream ; 
ill mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated 
them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor 
from the midst — Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and 
time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to 
get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so 
great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every 
dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in 
proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose 
spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He could 
not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and 
chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of 
all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, 
he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school- 
house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and 
every other niggardly patron ; and kick any itinerant pedagogue 
out of doors that should dare to call him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a 
face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as 
the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief but ex- 
pressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the 
shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall to, and 
help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or 
hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray- 
headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neigh- 
borhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as 
old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he 
scraped away on two or three strings, accompanying every move- 
ment of the bow with a motion of the head, bowing almost to the 
ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were 
to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his 



n8 IRVING. 

vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him, was idle ; ami 
to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering 
about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus 1 himself, that 
blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. 
He was the admiration of all the negroes, who, having gathered, 
of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood 
forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and win- 
dow, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, 
and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could 
the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous?* 
The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling 
graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, 
sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in 
one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a 
knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking 
at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and 
drawling out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was 
one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle 
and great men. The British and American line had run near 
it during the war : it had therefore been the scene of marauding, 
and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border 
chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story- 
teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in 
the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of 
every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large, blue-bearded 
Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old 
iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst 
at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who 

1 The patron saint of dancers and actors, and invoked against the disease 
known as " St. Vitus's dance." He is the patron of Saxony, Bohemia, and 
Sicily, and throughout Germany ranks as one of the fourteen " Nothelfer" 
of the Church. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 1 19 

shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer 1 to be lightly men- 
tioned, who in the battle of Whiteplains, 2 being an excellent 
master of defense, parried a musket-ball with a small sword, in- 
somuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance 
off at the hilt, in proof of which he was ready at any time to 
show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several 
more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom 
but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing 
the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari- 
tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary 
treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best 
in these sheltered, long-settled retreats, but are trampled under 
foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most 
of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for 
ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to 
finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before 
their surviving friends have traveled away from the neighborhood ; 
so that, when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they 
have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is, perhaps, the 
reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts, except in our long- 
established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernat- 
ural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of 
Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew 
from that haunted region : it breathed forth an atmosphere of 
dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy 
Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were 
doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales 

1 From the Dutch mijn heer, equivalent to the German mein Hcrr (" my 
master," "my lord"), our " sir " or " Mr.," a term of respectful address 
employed by the Dutch ; hence also a Dutchman. 

2 At Whiteplains, twenty-five miles northeast of New York, the Amer- 
icans were driven back by the British under Gen. Howe, and compelled to 
withdraw to New Jersey, October, 1 776. 



120 IRVING. 

were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings, 
heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major 
Andre 1 was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some 
mention was made also of the woman in white that haunted 
the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek 
on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the 
snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the 
favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who 
had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country, and, 
it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the 
churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have 
made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, 
suiTOunded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its 
decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian 
purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle 
slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by 
high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the blue hills 
of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the 
sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there, 
at least, the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church 
extends a wide, woody dell, along which raves a large brook 
among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep 
black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly 
thrown a wooden bridge. The road that led to it, and the bridge 
itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a 
gloom about it, even in the daytime, but occasioned a fearful 

1 John Andre was born in London in 175 1. He became an adjutant- 
general in the British army of the American Revolution. Benedict Arnold, 
who commanded the American fortress of West Point, made arrangements to 
betray that place into the hands of the British general Sir Henry Clinton. 
Andre was associated with Arnold in this plot, which was frustrated and de- 
feated by the capture of Andre, who had been sent by Arnold with letters. 
Andre was tried by a court-martial, and condemned to be hung as a spy. He 
was executed at Tappantown, Oct. 2, 17S0. In 1821 his remains were trans- 
ferred to England, and interred in Westminster Abbey. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 121 

darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the 
headless horseman, and the place where he was most frequently- 
encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical 
disbeliever in ghosts, — how he met the horseman returning from 
his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind 
him ; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and 
swamp, until they reached the bridge, when the horseman sud- 
denly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, 
and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched Dy a thrice marvelous 
adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hes- 
sian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed, that, on returning one 
night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been 
overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered to race 
with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it, too (for 
Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow), but, just as they came 
to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash 
of fire. 

All these tales told in that drowsy undertone with which men 
talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and 
then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep 
in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large 
extracts from his invaluable author Cotton Mather, and added 
many marvelous events that had taken place in his native State 
of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his 
nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered 
together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some 
time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. 
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions 1 behind their favorite 
swains ; and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clat- 
ter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter 
and fainter until they gradually died away, and the late scene of 

1 A cushion adjusted to a saddle at the back, serving as a kind of seat for 
another person riding behind. 



122 IRVING. 

noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lin. 
gered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have 
a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on 
the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will 
not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how- 
ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong ; for he certainly sallied 
forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and 
chopfallen. Oh these women, these women! Could that girl 
have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her 
encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure 
her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I! Let it 
suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had 
been sacking a hen-roost rather than a fair lady's heart. With- 
out looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth 
on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, 
and, with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most 
uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was 
soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and 
whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night, that Ichabod, heavy 
hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel homewards along the 
sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarrytown, and which 
he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as 
dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its 
dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall 
mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
dead hush of midnight he could even hear the barking of the 
watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it was so 
vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this 
faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn 
crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far 
off, from some farmhouse away among the hills ; but it was like 
a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near 
him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or 
perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog from a neighboring 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 123 

marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in 
his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the 
afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night 
grew darker and darker. The stars seemed to sink deeper in the 
sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. 
He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, ap- 
proaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost 
stories had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enor- 
mous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other 
trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its 
limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks 
for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising 
again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of 
the unfortunate Andre who had been taken prisoner hard by, and 
was universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The 
common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and super- 
' stition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred name- 
sake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful 
lamentations told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle. 
He thought his whistle was answered : it was but a blast sweep- 
ing sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little 
nearer, he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst 
of the tree. He paused, and ceased whistling, but, on looking 
more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had 
been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Sud- 
denly he heard a groan. His teeth chattered, and his knees 
smote against the saddle. It was but the rubbing of one huge 
bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. 
He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed 
the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen, known 
by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs laid side by 
side served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the 



124 IRVING. 

road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and 
chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous 
gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It 
was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was cap- 
tured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the 
sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since 
been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of 
the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump. He 
summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a 
score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across 
the bridge ; but, instead of starting forward, the perverse old 
animal made a lateral movement', and ran broadside against the 
fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked 
the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary 
foot. It was all in vain. His steed started, it is true, but it was 
only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of 
brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed 
both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, 
who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand 
just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his 
rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy 
tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Icha- 
bod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the 
brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and tower- 
ing. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like 
some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with 
terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too 
late ; and, besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or 
goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the 
wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he de- 
manded in stammering accents, " Who are you? " He received 
no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. 
Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 125 

the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy 
object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a 
bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the 
night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might 
now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse- 
man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of 
powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, 
but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind 
side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and 
waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com- 
panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones 
with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes 
of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his 
horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, 
thinking to lag behind : the other did the same. His heart be- 
gan to sink within him. He endeavored to resume his psalm 
tune ; but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, 
and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that 
was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted 
for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of 
his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and 
muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that 
he was headless ; but his horror was still more increased on ob- 
serving that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, 
was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle. His terror 
rose to desperation. He reined a shower of kicks and blows 
upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his 
companion the slip ; but the specter started full jump with him. 
Away then they dashed, through thick and thin ; stones flying, 
and sparks flashing, at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments 
fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long, lank body away over 
his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 



126 IRVING. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, 
instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
headlong downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy 
hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it 
crosses the bridge famous in goblin story ; and just beyond swells 
the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an 
apparent advantage in the chase ; but, just as he had got halfway 
through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he 
felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, 
and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just time 
to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when 
the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot 
by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's 
wrath passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle ; but 
this was no time for petty fears. The goblin was hard on his 
haunches ; and (unskillful rider that he was) he had much ado to 
maintain his seat, sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on 
another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's 
backbone with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him 
asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that 
the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a 
silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not 
mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under 
the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones's 
ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I can but reach that 
bridge," thought Ichabod, " I am safe." Just then he heard the 
black steed panting and blowing close behind him. He even 
fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in 
the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge ; he thun- 
dered over the resounding planks ; he gained the opposite side ; 
and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should 
vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 12-j 

then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act 
of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the 
horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a 
tremendous crash. He was tumbled headlong into the dust ; 
and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by 
like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, 
and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at 
his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at 
breakfast. Dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys as- 
sembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of 
the brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began 
to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod and his 
saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investiga- 
tion they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading 
to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt. The 
tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently 
at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the 
bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and 
black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close 
beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was 
not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his es- 
tate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. 
They consisted of two shirts and a half ; two stocks for the neck ; 
a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corcUkw* 
small-clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, full of dogs' 
ears; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture 
of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting 
Cotton Mather's " History of Witchcraft," a " New England 
Almanac," and a book of dreams and fortune-telling ; in which 
last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted by sev- 
eral fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the 
heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl 
were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper, 






128 IRVING. 

who from that time forward determined to send his children no 
more to school, observing that he never knew any good come of 
this same reading and writing. Whatever money the school- 
master possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but a 
day or two before, he must have had about his person at the 
time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church 
on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were 
collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where 
the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, 
of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind ; 
and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared 
them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their 
heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been car- 
ried off by the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and 
in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. 
The school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and 
another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on 
a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the 
ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence 
that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that he had left the neigh- 
borhood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Rip- 
per, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed 
by the heiress ; that he had changed his quarters to a distant 
petit of the country, had kept school and studied law at the same 
time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, election- 
eered, written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a 
justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who shortly 
after his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina 
in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly know- 
ing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst 
into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led 
some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he 
chose to tell. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 129 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of 
these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited 
away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often told 
about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The 
bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe ; 
and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late 
years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill- 
pond. The schoolhouse, being deserted, soon fell to decay, and 
was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate peda- 
gogue ; and the plow-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer 
evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a 
melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

[Found in the handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker.] 

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which I heard 
It related at a corporation meeting of the ancient city of the Manhattoes, 1 
at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The 
narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt 
clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected of 
being poor, he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was 
concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two 
or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. 
There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eye- 
brows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout ; now and 
then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, 
as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who 
never laugh but upon good grounds, when they have reason and the law on 
their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided and 
silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, stick- 
ing the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion 
of the head and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, 
and what it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a re- 
freshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an 

1 Manhattan, i.e., New York. 



130 IRVING. 

air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed 
that the story was intended most logically to prove, — 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures, 
provided we will but take a joke as we find it. 

" That therefore he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have 
rough riding of it. 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heir- 
ess, is a certain step to high preferment in the State." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this ex- 
planation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism ; while, 
methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a 
triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very well, but still 
he thought the story a little on the extravagant : there were one or two points 
on which he had his doubts. 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don't believe 
one half of it myself." 

D. K. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 

[A Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker.] 

'By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
Unto thy Ike day in wJiicJi I creep into 
Aly snpulchre." 

Cartwright. 

WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must re- 
member the Catskill Mountains. They are a dismembered 
branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to 
the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording 
it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every 
change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some 
change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains ; and 
they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect 
barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are 
clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 131 

clear evening sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the land- 
scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about 
their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow 
and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may have 
descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle- 
roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the up- 
land melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It 
is a little village, of great antiquity, having been founded by some 
of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, just 
about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuy- 
vesant ; 1 (may he rest in peace ! ) and there were some of the 
houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built 
of small, yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed 
windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, 
to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 
there lived many years since, while the country was yet a prov- 
ince of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow of the name 
of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles 
who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyve- 
sant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. 2 He 
inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his an- 
cestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured 
man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, hen- 
pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be 
owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal 
popularity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and 
conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at 
home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malle- 
able in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation ; and a curtain 

1 Governor of Manhattan Island in 1647. 

2 Fort Christina, or Christiana, was a Swedish fort, situated five miles 
north of Fort Cassimir (now Newcastle, Del.), attacked and captured by the 
Dutch of New Netherlands in 1655. 



132 IRVING. 

lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the vir- 
tues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may there- 
fore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing ; and, 
if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good 
wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his 
part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they 
talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the 
blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, 
would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at 
their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and 
shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and 
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was 
surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clamber- 
ing on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the 
neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aver- 
sion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the 
want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet 
rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's 1 lance, and 
fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be 
encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece 
on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and 
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics 
for husking Indian corn or building stone fences. The women 
of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and 
to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would 
not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to any- 
body's business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and 
keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm. It 

1 See note, p. 108. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 133 

was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country. 
Everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite 
of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow 
would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were 
sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain 
always made a point of setting in just as he had some outdoor 
work to do : so that, though his patrimonial estate had dwindled 
away under his management acre by acre, until there was little 
more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it 
was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 
promised to inherit the habits with the old clothes of his father. 
He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, 
equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, 1 which he 
had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her 
train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of 
foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white 
bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or 
trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a 
pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in per- 
fect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears 
about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing 
on his family. 

Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, 
and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of 
household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all 
lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a 
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his 
eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh 
volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, 
and take to the outside of the house, — the only side which, in 
truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

1 A kind of wide breeches. 



134 IRVING. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as 
much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded 
them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with 
an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. 
True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he 
was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods ; but 
what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting ter- 
rors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house, 
his crest fell ; his tail drooped to the ground or curled between 
his legs ; he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a 
sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle ; and, at the least flourish 
of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping 
precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of 
matrimony rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, 
and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with 
constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when 
driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, 
which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated 
by a rubicund portrait of his Majesty George III. 1 Here they 
used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy, summer's day, talking 
listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about 
nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money 
to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took 
place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands 
from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to 
the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school- 
master, — a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted 
by the most gigantic word in the dictionary! and how sagely 
they would deliberate upon public events some months after they 
had taken place! 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by 

1 George III. (1738-1820) ascended the English throne in 1760, and 
reigned sixty years. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 135 

Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the 
inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till 
night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the 
shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour 
by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he 
was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His 
adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), per- 
fectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. 
When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was 
observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, 
frequent, and angry puffs ; but, when pleased, he would inhale 
the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid 
clouds, and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and let- 
ting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod 
his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon 
the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members all to 
naught ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder him- 
self, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who 
charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of 
idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his only 
alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and the clamor 
of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the 
woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a 
tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom 
he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," 
he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but 
never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend 
to stand by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in 
his master's face, and, if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he 
reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had 
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Cats- 



136 IRVING. 

kill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel 
shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reechoed with 
the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, 
late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain 
herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an open- 
ing between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for 
many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly 
Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic 
course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lag- 
ging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at 
last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, 
wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from 
the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of 
the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene. 
Evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw 
their long, blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would 
be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame 
Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, 
hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked 
around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight 
across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived 
him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry 
ring through the still evening air, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van 
Winkle ! " At the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and, giv- 
ing a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully 
down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
over him. He looked anxiously in the same direction, and per- 
ceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending 
under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was 
surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented 
place, but, supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in 
need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 137 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singu- 
larity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built 
old fellow, with thick, bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His 
dress was of the antique Dutch fashion, — a cloth jerkin 1 strapped 
round the waist ; several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 
volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and 
bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that 
seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and 
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of 
this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and, 
mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow gully, 
apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, 
Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like distant 
thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, 
between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. 
He paused for an instant, but, supposing it to be the muttering 
of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place 
in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded 
by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending 
trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the 
azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time, 
Rip and his companion had labored on in silence ; for, though 
the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying 
a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something 
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired 
awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented 
themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of 
odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed 
in a quaint, outlandish fashion. Some wore short doublets; 2 
others, jerkins, with long knives in their belts ; and most of them 

1 A close jacket much worn in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 

2 A close-fitting outer garment, covering the body from the neck to below 
the waist. 



138 IRVING. 

had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. 
Their visages, too, were peculiar. One had a large head, broad 
face, and small, piggish eyes. The face of another seemed to 
consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar- 
loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, 
of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be 
the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather- 
beaten countenance. He wore a laced doublet, broad belt and 
hanger, 1 high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high- 
heeled shoes with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip 
of the figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Domi- 
nie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought 
over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that, though these 
folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the 
gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the 
most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Noth- 
ing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, 
which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains 
like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly 
desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, 
statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster counte- 
nances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote to- 
gether. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg 
into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com- 
pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling. They quaffed the 
liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even 
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the bever- 
age, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hol- 
lands. 2 He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted 

1 A short broadsword worn from the girdle, and slightly curved at the 
point. 

2 Holland ^n. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 139 

to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another ; and he re- 
iterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses 
were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually- 
declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had 
first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes. It was 
a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twitter- 
ing among the bushes ; and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and 
breasting the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, 
" I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences 
before he fell asleep, — the strange man with a keg of liquor, 
the mountain ravine, the wild retreat among the rocks, the 
woe-begone party at ninepins, the flagon. " Oh, that wicked 
flagon!" thought Rip: "what excuse shall I make to Dame 
Van Winkle!" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well- 
oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the 
barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock 
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the 
mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with 
liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared ; 
but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. 
He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain : 
the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to 
be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gam- 
bol, and, if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and 
gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and 
wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not 
agree with me," thought Rip ; " and, if this frolic should lay me 
up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with 
Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the 
glen. He found the gully up which he and his companion had 
ascended the preceding evening; but, to his astonishment, a 
mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to 



140 IRVING. 

rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, 
made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way- 
through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and some- 
times tripped up or entangled by the wild grape-vines that twisted 
their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of 
network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
the cliffs to the amphitheater ; but no traces of such opening re- 
mained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over 
which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 
fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the sur- 
rounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. 
He again called and whistled after his dog. He was only an- 
swered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in 
air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice, and who, 
secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the 
poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? The morning 
was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his break- 
fast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun, he dreaded to 
meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the moun- 
tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home- 
ward. 

As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but 
none whom he knew ; which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. 
Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he 
was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of 
surprise, and, whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably 
stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture in- 
duced Rip involuntarily to do the same, when, to his astonish- 
ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long. 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing 
at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recog- 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. • 141 

nized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The 
very village was altered : it was larger and more populous. 
There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and 
those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. 
Strange names were over the doors, strange faces at the windows : 
everything was strange. His mind now misgave him. He be- 
gan to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not 
bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left 
but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains ; there 
ran the silver Hudson at a distance ; there was every hill and 
dale precisely as it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. 
" That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head 
sadly." 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own 
house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every 
moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found 
the house gone to decay, — the roof fallen in, the windows shat- 
tered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that 
looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name ; 
but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was 
an unkind cut, indeed. " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has 
forgotten me ! " 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 
and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his 
connubial fears. He called loudly for his wife and children : the 
lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all 
again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the vil- 
lage inn ; but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety, wooden build- 
ing stood in its place, with great, gaping windows, some of them 
broken and mended with old hats and petticoats ; and over the 
door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." 
Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch 
inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with some- 



142 • IRVING. 

thing on the top that looked like a red night-cap ; 1 and from 
it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of 
stars and stripes. All this was strange and incomprehensible. 
He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King 
George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; 
but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was 
changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand 
instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, 
and underneath was painted in large characters, " General Wash- 
ington." 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none 
that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed 
changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, 
instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He 
looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, 
double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke 
instead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, dol- 
ing forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of 
these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of 
handbills, was haranguing vehemently about the rights of citizens, 
election, members of Gongress, liberty, Bunker's Hill, 2 heroes of 
seventy-six, and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish 
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty 
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and 
children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the atten- 
tion of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying 



1 Cap of liberty worn in the Roman states by manumitted slaves. It was 
made thus according to a coin of Brutus after the death of Caesar, and worn 
by Brutus and his rebels, as a token of their republican sentiment. Its shape 
was copied from the Phrygian cap, which had become a symbol or emblem 
of personal and political freedom. 

2 A celebrated height in Charlestown, Mass. (now a part of Boston), fa- 
mous as the place where a battle was fought between the British and American 
forces June 17, 1775. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 143 

him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled 
up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired on which side 
he voted. Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but 
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, 
inquired in his ear whether he was a Fedeial or a Democrat. 
Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question, when a 
knowing, self-important old gentleman in a sharp cocked hat 
made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and 
left with his elbows as he passed, and, planting himself before 
Van Winkle, — with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his 
cane ; his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into 
his very soul, — demanded in an austere tone what brought him 
to the election with a gun on his shoulder and a mob at his heels, 
and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village. "Alas! 
gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor, quiet 
man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject to the King, God 
bless him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders : "A Tory, a 
Tory! A spy! A refugee! Hustle him! Away with him! " It 
was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked 
hat restored order, and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came 
there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly 
assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in 
search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

" Well, who are they? Name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 
Nicholas Vedder? " 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied 
in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder! Why, he is dead and 
gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in 
the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten 
and gone, too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher? " 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war. 



2-44 IRVING. 

Some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point; 1 others 
say he was drowned in the squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. 2 
I don't know : he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster? " 

" He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and 
is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his 
home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. 
Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand, — 
war, Congress, Stony Point. He had no courage to ask after 
any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here 
know Rip Van Winkle? " 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. "Oh, to 
be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the 
tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he 
went up the mountain, apparently as lazy, and certainly as rag- 
ged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He 
doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another 
man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked 
hat demanded who he was, and what was his name. 

" God knows! " exclaimed he, at his wits' end. " I'm not my- 
self : I'm somebody else. That's me yonder. No, that's some- 
body else got into my shoes. I was myself last night : but I fell 
asleep on the mountain ; and they've changed my gun ; and 
everything's changed ; and I'm changed ; and I can't tell what's 
my name, or who I am! " 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink 

1 The well-known promontory on the Hudson River, forty-two miles 
north of New York, where, July 16, 1779, Gen. " Mad Anthony" Wayne 
took by storm the fort upon its rocky heights. 

2 Anthony's or St. Anthony's Nose is a headland fifty-seven miles from 
New York, on the east side of the Hudson, in Putnam County. It juts froir 
the south side of Breakneck Hill at the north entrance of the Highlands. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 145 

significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There 
was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old 
fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the 
self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipita- 
tion. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed 
through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, 
began to cry. " Hush, Rip! " cried she. " Hush, you little fool! 
The old man won't hurt you." 

The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her 
voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What 
is your name, my good woman? " asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name? " 

" Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle. It's twenty 
years since he went away from home with his gun, and never 
has been heard of since. His dog came home without him ; but 
whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, no- 
body can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask, but he put it with a 
faltering voice : — 

" Where's your mother? " 

Oh, she too had died but a short time since. She broke a 
blood-vessel ifl a fit of passion at a New England peddler. 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The 
honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his 
daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father!" cried 
he, — " young Rip Van Winkle once, old Rip Van Winkle now! 
Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle? " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and, peering under 
it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough! It is Rip 
Van Winkle! It is himself! Welcome home again, old neigh- 
bor! Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been 



14 6 IRVING. 

to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard 
it. Some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues 
in their cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, 
who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed 
down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head, upon which 
there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assem- 
blage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He 
was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one 
of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most an- 
cient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonder- 
ful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected 
Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed 
down from his ancestor the historian, that the Catskill Mountains 
had always been haunted by strange beings ; that it was affirmed 
that the great Hendrick Hudson, 1 the first discoverer of the river 
and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his 
crew of the Half -moon, 2 being permitted in this way to revisit the 
scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, 
and the great city called by his name ; that his father had once 
seen them in their old Dutch dresses, playing at ninepins in the hol- 
low of the mountain ; and that he himself had heatd, one summer 
afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and re- 
turned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's 
daughter took him home to live with her. She had a snug, well- 
furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom 
Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his 
back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, 
seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the 
farm, but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything 
else but his business. 

1 See Note i, p. 96. 2 Hendrick Hudson's ship. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. H7 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the 
wear and tear of time, and preferred making friends among the 
rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his 
place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was rever- 
enced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of 
the old times " before the war." It was some time before he 
could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to 
comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his 
torpor, — how that there had been a revolutionary war; that the 
country had thrown off the yoke of old England, and that, in- 
stead of being a subject of his Majesty George III., he was now 
a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politi 
cian, — the changes of states and empires made but little impres- 
sion on him, — but there was one species of despotism under 
which he had long groaned, and that was, petticoat govern- 
ment. Happily, that was at an end. He had got his neck out 
of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever 
he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. 
Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, 
shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might pass 
either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his 
deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr, 
Doolittle's hotel. He was observed at first to vary on some 
points every time he told it, which was doubtless owing to his 
having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to 
the tale I have related ; and not a man, woman, or child in the 
neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to 
doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
head, and that this was one point on which he always remained 
flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder- 



148 IRVING. 

storm of a summer afternoon about the Catskill, but they say 
Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins ; 
and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neigh- 
borhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might 
have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE. 

The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knicker- 
bocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Roth- 
bart and the Kyphauser Mountain ; the subjoined note, however, which he 
had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his 
usual fidelity. 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many; but nev- 
ertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch 
settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. 
Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along 
the Hudson, all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. 
I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, 
w*as a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on 
every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take 
this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken be- 
fore a country justice and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwrit- 
ing. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The following are traveling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. 
Knickerbocker : — 

" The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region full 
of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced 
the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and sending 
good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said 
to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had 
charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper 
hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into 
stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light 
summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the 
crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in 
the air; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 149 

showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow 
an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as 
ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of 
its web ; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! 

" In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Monitou, or 
Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and 
took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon 
the redmen. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or 
a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and 
among ragged rocks, and then spring off with a loud ' ho, ho! ' leaving him 
aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent." 



THE WIFE. 

" The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceal* d comforts of a man 
Locked tip in woman' 's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth ! 
The violet bed 'j not sweeter." 

MlDDLETON. 1 

I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which 
women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. 
Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and pros- 
trate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the 
softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their char- 
acter, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be 
more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who had 
been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial 
roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly 
rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her 
husband under misfortune, and abiding with unshrinking firm- 
ness the bitterest blasts of adversity. 

1 Thomas Middleton (about 1570-1627), an English dramatist. The 
above selection is from his play Women Beware Women, act iii. sc. 1. 



150 IRVING. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about 
the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the 
hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its 
caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it 
beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere 
dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be 
his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding 
herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting 
the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 
blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I 
can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to 
have a wife and children. — If you are prosperous, there they are 
to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort 
you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling 
into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world 
than a single one ; partly, because he is more stimulated to exer- 
tion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who 
depend upon him for subsistence, but chiefly, because his spirits 
are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self- 
respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness 
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, 
of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to 
run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and aban- 
doned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, 
for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought 
up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no for- 
tune, but that of my friend was ample, and he delighted in the 
anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and ad- 
ministering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a 
kind of witchery about the sex. — " Her life," said he, "shall be 
like a fairy tale." 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 151 

The very difference in their characters produced an harmoni- 
ous combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat serious 
cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the 
mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, 
of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, 
in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if 
there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on 
his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly 
person. The fond, confiding air with which she looked up to 
him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherish- 
ing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very 
helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path 
of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em- 
barked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been 
married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, 
it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost to 
penury For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went 
about with a haggard countenance and a breaking heart. His 
life was but a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more 
insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the 
presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm 
her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of 
affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered 
looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly 
and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly 
powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness; 
but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more 
he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought 
that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought 
he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek — the song will die 
away from those lips — the luster of those eyes will be quenched 
with sorrow — and the happy heart which now beats lightly in 
that bosom will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and 
miseries of the world. 



152 IRVING. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situ- 
ation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him 
through I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?" At the 
question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake!" 
cried he, "if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife; 
it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness! " 

" And why not? " said I. " She must know it sooner or later: 
you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may 
break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by 
yourself ; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest 
tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of 
her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the 
only bond that can keep hearts together, — an unreserved com- 
munity of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that 
something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love 
will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and outraged when 
even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." 

"Oh, but, my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to 
all her future prospects, — how I am to strike her very soul to 
the earth by telling her that her husband is a beggar! that she 
is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society 
— to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! To tell her 
that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she 
might have continued to move in constant brightness — the light 
of every eye — the admiration of every heart! How can she 
bear poverty? she has been brought up in all the refinements of 
opulence. How can she bear neglect? she has been the idol of 
society. Oh! it will break her heart— it will break her heart!" 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for 
sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub- 
sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the 
subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to 
his wife. He shook his head mournfully but positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she 
should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the altera- 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 153 

tion of your circumstances. You must change your style of 
living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, 
" don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed 
your happiness in outward show, — you have yet friends, warm 
friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less 
splendidly lodged; and surely it does not require a palace to be 
happy with Mary — " 

"I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in a 
hovel! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust! I 
could — I could — God bless her! — God bless her!" cried he, 
bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and grasp- 
ing him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be the same 
with you. Aye, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph 
to her, — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sym- 
pathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves 
you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of 
heavenly fire, wmich lies dormant in the broad daylight of pros- 
perity, but which kindles up, and beams, and blazes in the dark 
hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom 
is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until he has 
gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and 
the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited 
imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; 
ami following up the impression I had made, I finished by per- 
suading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the forti- 
tude of one whose life has been a round of pleasures? Her 
gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward path of low 
humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the 
sunny regions in which they had hitherto reveled. Besides, 
ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mor- 
tifications, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. In short, I 



154 IRVING. 

could not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. 
He had made the disclosure. 

" And how did she bear it? " 

" Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, 
for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all 
that had lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," added he, 
" she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no 
idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in 
poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation ; 
she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. 
When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its 
paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real 
trial." 

" But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest task, 
that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the 
secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then 
it is a single misery, and soon over : whereas you otherwise 
suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not pov- 
erty so much as pretense that harasses a ruined man — the strug- 
gle between a proud mind and an empty purse, — the keeping up 
a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the 
courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest 
sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He 
had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only 
anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. 
He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cot- 
tage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been 
busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment 
required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the 
splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting 
his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with 
the idea of herself ; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; 
for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those 
when he had leaned over that instrument and listened to the 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 155 

melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this in- 
stance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 
been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had 
become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, 
and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he 
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

"Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his 
lips. 

"And what of her? " asked I. " Has anything happened to 
her? " 

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it nothing 
to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable 
cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of 
her wretched habitation? " 

" Has she then repined at the change? " 

" Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. 
Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; 
she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort!" 

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, 
my friend ; you never were so rich, — you never knew the bound- 
less treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." 

"Oh, but, my friend! if this first meeting at the cottage were 
over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first 
day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble 
dwelling, — she has been employed all day in arranging its mis- 
erable equipments, — she has, for the first time, known the 
fatigues of domestic employment, — she has, for the first time, 
looked round her on a home destitute of everything elegant — 
almost of everything convenient ; and may now be sitting down, 
exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future 
poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could 
not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 



15 6 IRVING. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane so thickly 
shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, 
we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its 
appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing 
rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion 
of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it ; 
and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about 
the door and on the grassplot in front. A small wicket gate 
opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to 
the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music. 
Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused and listened. It was 
Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, 
a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward 
to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel 
walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the window and 
vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping 
forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few 
wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on 
her cheek; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had 
never seen her look so lovely. 

" My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come! 
I have been watching and watching for you ; and running down 
the lane, and looking out for you. I 've set out a table under 
a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I 've been gathering some 
of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of 
them — and we have such excellent cream — and everything is so 
sweet and still here. — Oh!" said she, putting her arm within his, 
and looking up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall be so happy! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — 
he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again ; 
he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he 
has often assured me that, though the world has since gone pros- 
perously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet 
never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 157 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 

" If that severe doom of Synesius l be true, — ' // is a greater offence to steal 
dead wen's labor than their clothes,'' — what shall become of most -writers ? " 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 2 

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, 
and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which 
nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, yet 
teem with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, how- 
ever, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, 
and he is continually finding out some very simple cause for 
some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my 
peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a 
scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book- 
making craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons 
of the British Museum, 3 with that listlessness with which one 
:s apt to saunter about a room in warm weather ; sometimes 
lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the 
hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, 
with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paint- 
ings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this 
idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant door, at the 
end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now 
and then it would open, and some strange-favored being, gener- 
ally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide through the 
rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding objects. There 

1 Synesius (378-430 A.D.), bishop of Ptolemais, was a philosopher and 
writer. 

2 This famous work by Robert Burton (1577-1640) was published in 
England in 1621, 

3 A celebrated museum in London, founded in 1753. It contains famous 
collections of antiquities, drawings, prints, and an immense library. 



158 IRVING. 

was an air of mystery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, 
and I determined to attempt the passage of that strait, and to 
explore the unknown regions beyond. The door yielded to my 
hand, with all that facility with which the portals of enchanted 
castles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. I found myself 
in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases of venera- 
ble books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were ar- 
ranged a great number of quaint black-looking portraits of ancient 
authors. About the room were placed long tables, with stands 
for reading and writing, at which sat many pale, cadaverous per- 
sonages, poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among 
moldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. 
The most hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious apart- 
ment, excepting that you might hear the racing of pens over sheets 
of paper, or occasionally the deep sigh of one of these sages as 
he shifted his position to turn over the page of an old folio, 
doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatulency incident to 
learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write something 
on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar 
would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of 
the room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon 
which the other would fall tooth and nail with famished voracity. 
I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of 
magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The 
scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale of a philosopher who 
was shut up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, 
that opened only once a year ; where he made the spirits of the 
place obey his commands, and bring him books of all kinds of 
dark knowledge, so that at the end of the year, when the magic 
portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so 
versed in forbidden lore as to be able to soar above the heads of 
the multitude, and to control the powers of nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of 
the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 159 

interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words 
were sufficient for the purpose: — I found that these mysterious 
personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally 
authors, and in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in 
fact, in the reading room of the great British Library, — an im- 
mense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of 
which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read. 
To these sequestered pools of obsolete literature, therefore, do 
many modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic 
lore, or " pure English, undefiled," x wherewith to swell their own 
scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner 
and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed 
one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most 
worm-eaten volumes, printed in black letter. He was evidently 
constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be 
purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, 
placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open 
upon his table — but never read. I observed him, now and then, 
draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; 
whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to 
keep off that exhaustion of the stomach produced by much 
pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself 
to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored 
clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, 
who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with his 
bookseller. After considering him attentively, I recognized in 
him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which bustled 
off well with the trade. I was curious to see how he manufac- 
tured his wares. He made more stir and show of business than 
any of the others ; dipping into various books, fluttering over 
the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel 

1 See Edmund Spenser (1552-99), The Faerie Queene, Bk. IV. canto ii. 
stanza 32 : " Well of English undefyled. " 



160 IRVING. 

out of another, " line upon line, precept upon precept, here a 
little, and there a little." * The contents of his book seemed to 
be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' caldron in Macbeth. 2 
It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind 
worm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like "baboon's 
blood," to make the medley "slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be im- 
planted in authors for wise purposes? May it not be the way in 
which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge 
and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age in spite of the 
inevitable decay of the works in which they were first produced? 
We see that nature has wisely, though whimsically, provided for 
the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of 
certain birds ; so that animals which, in themselves, are little 
better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers of the 
orchard and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's carriers to dis- 
perse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties 
and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up 
by these flights of predatory authors, and cast forth, again to 
flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. 
Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, 
and spring up under new forms. What was formerly a ponder- 
ous history revives in the shape of a romance — an old legend 
changes into a modern play — and a sober philosophical treatise 
furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling 
essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our American woodlands ; 
where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of 
dwarf oaks start up in their place ; and we never see the prostrate 
trunk of a tree moldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole 
tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into 
which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great 
law of nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes of matter 

1 Isaiah xxviii. 10. 

2 See Shakespeare's Macbeth, act iv. sc. I. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 161 

shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that 
their elements shall never perish. Generation after generation, 
both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital 
principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to 
flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and having pro- 
duced a numerous progeny, in a good old age they sleep with 
their fathers, that is to say, with the authors who preceded them 
— and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had leaned 
my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was 
owing to the soporific emanations from these works; or to the 
profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude arising from much 
wandering ; or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper times 
and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was that 
I fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued 
busy, and indeed the same scene remained before my mind's 
eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I dreamt that 
the chamber was still decorated with the portraits of ancient 
authors, but that the number was increased. The long tables 
had disappeared, and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a 
ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about 
the great repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth Street. 1 
Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities 
common to dreams, methought it turned into a garment of for- 
eign or antique fashion, with which they p. jceeded to equip 
themselves. I noticed, however, that no one pretended to 
clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from 
one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking 
himself out piecemeal, while some of his original rags would 
peep out from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed 
ogling several moldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. 
He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of 

1 The market lor second-hand wearing apparel in the eighteenth century 
in London. 



1 62 IRVING. 

the old fathers, and, having purloined the gray beard of another, 
endeavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking com- 
monplace of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of 
wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroider- 
ing a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several 
old court dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 1 Another 
had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manu- 
script, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from "The 
Paradise of Daintie Devices," 2 and having put Sir Philip Sid- 
ney's 3 hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite 
air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of puny dimen- 
sions, had bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from 
several obscure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very 
imposing front ; but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I 
perceived that he had patched his small clothes with scraps of 
parchment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only 
helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their 
own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to 
contemplate the costumes of the old writers merely to imbibe 
their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I 
grieve to say that too many were apt to array themselves from 
top to toe in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not 
omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and 
an Arcadian 4 hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, 
but whose rural wanderings had been confined to the classic 
haunts of Primrose Hill 5 and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. 5 

1 See Note i, p. 89. 

2 A collection of poems compiled in 1576 by Richard Edwards, an Eng- 
lish dramatist and poet. 

3 An English writer and general (1554-86), author of the pastoral romance 
Arcadia, and a series of sonnets, Astrophel and Stella. 

4 In reference to the poet's ideal Arcadia, — the haunt of shepherds and 
shepherdesses. 

5 An eminence north of Regent's Park, one of the largest parks in 
London. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 163 

He had decked himself in wreaths and ribbands from all the 
old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side, went 
about with a fantastical, lackadaisical air, " babbling about green 
fields." 1 But the personage that most struck my attention was 
a pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably 
large and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheez- 
ing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng with a 
look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a 
thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept majes- 
tically away in a formidable frizzled wig. In the height of this 
literary masquerade, a cry suddenly resounded from every side, 
of "Thieves! thieves!" I looked, and lo! the portraits about 
the wall became animated ! The old authors thrust out, first a 
head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, 
for an instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended with 
fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene of 
scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all description. 
The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their 
plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks 
stripping a modern professor ; on another, there was sad dev- 
astation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. 
Beaumont and Fletcher, 2 side by side, raged round the field like 
Castor and Pollux, 3 and sturdy Ben Jonson 4 enacted more 
wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As 
to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time 
since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as 
Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants 

1 See Shakespeare's Henry V., act ii. sc. 3. 

2 Francis Beaumont (1584-1616), an English dramatist and poet. He 
lived in intimate relations with his friend John Fletcher (1579-1625). They 
formed a literary partnership and collaborated in the production of numer- 
ous plays. 

3 Twin brpthers in Greek and Roman mythology. They had many 
adventures together, and temples were erected to them as divinities, 

4 A famous English dramatist ( 1 573 ?— 1637). He served for a short time 
in his youth as a soldier in the Netherlands. 



164 IRVING. 

about him as about the dead body of Patroclus. 1 I was grieved 
to see many men, to whom I had been accustomed to look upon 
with awe and reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to 
cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the prag- 
matical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scram- 
bling away in sore affright with half a score of authors in full 
cry after him. They were close upon his haunches ; in a 
twinkling off went his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment 
was peeled away, until in a few moments, from his domineer- 
ing pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy "chopped bald shot," 2 
and made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at 
his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this 
learned Theban that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, 
which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were 
at an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The 
old authors shrunk back into their picture frames, and hung in 
shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself 
wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of book- 
worms gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream 
had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never before 
heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of 
wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I 
had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, 
but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary " pre- 
serve," subject to game laws, and that no one must presume to 
hunt there without special license and permission. In a word, I 
stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make 
a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors 
let loose upon me. 

1 A Greek warrior in Homer's Iliad, the friend of Achilles. He is slain 
by Hector, and the Greeks and Trojans fight for the possession of his body. 
See Iliad, Bk. XVII. 

2 Henry IV., Part II. act iii. sc. 2. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. i6< 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON.i 

" Thou soft-flawing Avon, by thy silver stream 
Of tilings more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream: 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow 'd the turf is which pillow' 'd his head." 

Gakrick.2 

TO a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which 
he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of some- 
thing like independence and territorial consequence when, after 
a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into 
slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world 
without go as it may ; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has 
the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very 
monarch of all he surveys. The armchair is his throne, the 
poker his scepter, and the little parlor, some twelve feet square, 
his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from 
the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleam- 
ing out kindly on a cloudy day ; and he who has advanced some 
way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the importance of 
husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. " Shall I 
not take mine ease in mine inn? " 3 thought I, as I gave the fire 
a stir, lolled back in my elbowchair, and cast a complacent look 
about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my 
mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church 
in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and 

1 A town in Warwickshire, England, situated on the river Avon. It is 
famous as the birthplace of Shakespeare. Here may be seen Shakespeare's 
house, in which an interesting museum has been formed. Pilgrimages to 
this literary shrine are made yearly by large numbers of persons. 

2 David Garrick (1717-79), a celebrated English actor who was the 
author of a number of plays, odes, and epigrams. He was famous for his 
portrayals of Shakespearean characters. 

3 Henry IV., Part I. act iii. sc. 3, 



1 66 IRVING. 

a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with 
a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest 
hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion 
was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, 
to avoid, being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide Book 
under my arm as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt 
all night of Shakespeare, the jubilee, 1 and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which 
we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about the middle 
of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way ; 
the north wind had* spent its last gasp ; and a mild air came 
stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, 
and wooing every bud' and flower to burst forth into fragrance and 
beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first 
visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where, 
according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft of 
wool-combing. It is a small, mean-looking edifice of wood and 
plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight in 
hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid 
chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every lan- 
guage, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the 
prince to the peasant, and present a simple but striking instance 
of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great 
poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red 
face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with 
artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly 
dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics 
with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There 
was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shake- 
speare shot the deer on his poaching exploits. 2 There, too, was 

1 Commemoration exercises devised by David Garrick and held at Strat- 
ford, September, 1769. 

2 See p. 172. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 167 

his tobacco box, which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir 
Walter Raleigh; 1 the sword also with which he played Hamlet; 
and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence 2 discovered 
Romeo and Juliet at the tomb! There was an ample supply also 
of Shakespeare's mulberry tree, which seems to have as extraor- 
dinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross, 
of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shakespeare's 
chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small gloomy chamber, 
just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a time 
have sat when a boy, watching the slowly-revolving spit with all 
the longing of an urchin ; Or of an evening, listening to the cronies 
and gossips of Stratford dealing forth churchyard tales and legend- 
ary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair 
it is the custom of every one that visits the house to sit : whether 
this be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of 
the bard I am at a loss to say ; I merely mention the fact ; and 
mine hostess privately assured me that, though built of solid oak, 
such was the fervent zeal of devotees that the chair had to be 
new bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice 
also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes 
something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, 3 
or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some 
few years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has 
found its way back again to the old chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing 
to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. 
I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anec- 
dotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise all travelers 

1 An English admiral, historian, and poet (1552-1618) He was credited 
with doing much to introduce the use of tobacco in England. 

2 Romeo and Juliet, act v. sc. 3. 

3 A famous pilgrimage shrine in the town of Loretto in Italy. The Santa 
Casa (" Holy House ") is reputed to be the house of the Virgin, transported 
by angels from Nazareth. 



1 68 IRVING. 

who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to 
us whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can per- 
suade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm 
of the reality? There is nothing like resolute good-humored 
credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so 
far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal 
descent from the poet, when, luckily for my faith, she put into 
my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in 
her consanguinity at defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to 
his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a 
large and venerable pile, moldering with age, but richly orna- 
mented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered 
point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the 
town. Its situation is quiet and retired ; the river runs murmur- 
ing at the foot of the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon 
its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue 
of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to 
form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate 
of the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown 
with grass ; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into 
the earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted 
the reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests 
among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a con- 
tinual flutter and chirping ; and rooks are sailing and cawing 
about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed 
sexton, and accompanied him home to get the key of the 
church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty 
years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with 
the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for 
a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon 
the Avon and its bordering meadows ; and was a picture of that 
neatness, order, and comfort which pervade the humblest dwell- 
ings in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 1 69 

floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. 
Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. 
On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family 
Bible and prayer book, and the drawer contained the family 
library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. 
An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture, ticked 
on the opposite side of the room, with a bright warming pan 
hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday 
cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep 
enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one corner 
sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed'girl, 
— and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom 
he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had 
been his companion from childhood. They had played together 
in infancy ; they had worked together in manhood ; they were now 
tottering about and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a 
short time they will probably be buried together in the neighbor- 
ing churchyard. It is not often that we see two streams of exist- 
ence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in 
such quiet " bosom scenes " of life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard 
from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new to im- 
part. The long interval during which Shakespeare's writing lay 
in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over history ; and 
it is his good or evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his 
biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpen- 
ters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and 
they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who 
superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the sex- 
ton, was " a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John 
Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry 
tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a 
sovereign quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 



170 IRVING. 

dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare house. 
John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and 
inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her remains of the 
mulberry tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to 
Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered 
that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to 
the poet's tomb ; the latter having comparatively but few visitors. 
Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and mere peb- 
bles make the stream of truth diverge into different channels 
even at the fountain head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and 
entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented with carved doors 
of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture 
and embellishments superior to those of most country churches. 
There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over 
some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping 
piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the 
chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave 
before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short 
distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A 
flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are 
four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, 
and which have in them something extremely awful. If they are 
indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the 
grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful 

minds. 

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shake- 
speare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resem- 
blance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched 
forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of 
that cheerful, social disposition by which he was as much char- 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 171 

acterized among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his 
genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his 
decease — fifty-three years ; an untimely death for the world : for 
what fruit might not have been expected from the golden autumn 
of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes 
of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favor! 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its 
effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the 
bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at 
one time contemplated. A few years since, also, as some laborers 
were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so 
as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one 
might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed 
to meddle with his remains, so awfully guarded by a malediction ; 
and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, 
should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept 
watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished and 
the aperture closed again. He told me that he had made bold 
to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones — 
nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the 
dust of Shakespeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter, 
Mrs. Hall, and others of his.family. On a tomb close by, also, 
is a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe of usurious 
memory, on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. 1 
There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell 
on anything that is not connected with Shakespeare. His idea 
pervades the place — the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. 
The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here 
indulge in perfect confidence : other traces of him may be false 
or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. 
As I trod the sounding pavement, there was something intense 
and thrilling in the idea that, in very truth, the remains of Shake- 

1 John Combe's usury was the subject of the humorous epitaph which 
Shakespeare wrote for his friend. 



172 IRVING. 

speare were moldering beneath my feet. It was a long time 
before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; and as I 
passed through the churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of 
the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, 
but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at 
Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakespeare, in 
company with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed his 
youthful offense of deer-stealing. In this harebrained exploit 
we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's 
lodge, where he remained all night in doleful captivity. When 
brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must 
have been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his 
spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the 
park gate at Charlecot. 1 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so incensed 
him that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity 
of the laws in force against the rhyming deerstalker. Shakespeare 
did not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight of the 
shire and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned the 
pleasant banks of the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered 
away to London ; became a hanger-on to the theaters, then an 
actor ; and finally wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the 
persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent 
wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. He re- 

1 Irving's Note. —The following is the only stanza extant oi this 
lampoon : — 

" A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 
He thinks himself great ; 
Yet an asse in his state, 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate. 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it." 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 173 

tained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment 
of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writings, 
but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is 
said to be the original Justice Shallow, 1 and the satire is slyly 
fixed upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like those 
of the knight, had white luces 2 in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften 
and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; but I look 
upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situa- 
tion and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless 
all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and 
undirected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally some- 
thing in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely 
and wildly, and delights in everything eccentric and licentious. 
It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, 
whether a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great 
poet ; and had not Shakespeare's mind fortunately taken a literary 
bias, he might have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has 
all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an un- 
broken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was to be 
found in the company of all kinds of odd, anomalous characters ; 
that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and was one 
of those unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men shake 
their heads, and predict that they will one day come to the gal- 
lows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubt- 
less like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager and as 
yet untamed imagination as something delightfully adventurous. 3 

1 A pompous country justice in Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Windsor 
and King Henry IV., Part II. See p. 180. 

2 Irving's Note. — The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon 
about Charlecot. 

3 Irving's Note. — A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and asso- 
ciates in his youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up 
at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his " Picturesque Views 
on the Avon." 



174 IRVING. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still 
remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly 
interesting from being connected with this whimsical but eventful 
circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house 
stood but little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I 
resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely 
through some of those scenes from which Shakespeare must have 
derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scenery 
is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of 
the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the land- 
scape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awak- 
ening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses ; 
to see the moist, mellow earth beginning to put forth the green 
sprout and the tender blade ; and the trees and shrubs, in their 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of 
Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to 
meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers 
of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Among 
others, the people of Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their 
heads; and in the number of the champions was Shakespeare, who, in spite 
of the proverb that " they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to 
his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at 
the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry them 
off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing 
them, they were forced to lie down under a crab tree, where they passed 
the night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shakespeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed returning 
to Bedford ; but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with 

" Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford." 

" The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still bear the epithets thus 
given them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the 
pipe and tabor ; Hillborough is now called Haunted Hillborough ; and Graf- 
ton is famous for the poverty of its soil." 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 175 

reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of returning 
foliage and flower. The cold snowdrop, that little borderer on 
the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms 
in the small gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the 
new-dropped lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow 
twittered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the 
robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain ; 
and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, 
towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents 
of melody. As I watched the little songster mounting up higher 
and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom 
of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called 
to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song in " Cymbeline:" l 

" Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 
On chalked flowers that lies; 

" And winking Mary -buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty is, 
My lady sweet, arise! " 

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground : every- 
thing is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every old cot- 
tage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where 
he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and man- 
ners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which 
he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, 
we are told, it was a popular amusement in winter evenings " to 
sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, 
lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, 
fairies, goblins, and friars." 2 

1 Act ii. sc. 3. 

2 Irving's Note.— Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a 
host of these fireside fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars. 



17 6 IRVING. 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which 
made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and windings 
through a wide and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering from among 
willows which fringed its borders ; sometimes disappearing among 
groves or beneath green banks ; and sometimes rambling out into 
full view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow 
land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the 
Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be 
its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening landscape lies in a 
manner enchained in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into 
a footpath, which led along the borders of fields and under 
hedgerows to a private gate of the park ; there was a stile, how- 
ever, for the benefit of the pedestrian, there being a public right 
of way through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable 
estates, in which every one has a kind of property — at least as 
far as the footpath is concerned. It in some measure reconciles 
a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his 
neighbor, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open 
for his recreation; He breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls 
as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he 
has not the privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has 
not, at the same time, the trouble of paying for it, and keeping 
it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, 
whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind 
sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed 
from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged 
through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view 

spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, 
kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, 
conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the sporne, 
the mare, the man in the oke, the hellwaine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom 
Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that 
we were afraid of our own shadowes." 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 177 

but a distant statue, and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow 
across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that has 
the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended 
similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long 
duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time with 
which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken 
also the long-settled dignity, and proudly concentrated indepen- 
dence of an ancient family ; and I have heard a worthy but aris- 
tocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous 
palaces of modern gentry, that " money could do much with 
stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was no such thing 
as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, 
and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Full- 
broke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of 
Shakespeare's commentators have supposed he derived his noble 
forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pic- 
tures in " As You Like It." 1 It is in lonely wanderings through 
such scenes that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of in- 
spiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and 
majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and 
rapture ; vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon 
it ; and we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable luxury of 
thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one of 
those very trees before me, which threw their broad shades over 
the grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the 
poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song which 
breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary : 

" Under the greenwood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat, 

1 Act ii. sc I. 



178 IRVING. 

Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather." * 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building 
of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen 
Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. 2 
The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may 
be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy 
country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from 
the park into a kind of courtyard in front of the house, orna- 
mented with a grassplot, shrubs, and flower beds. The gateway 
is in imitation of the ancient barbican, being a kind of outpost, 
and flanked by towers, though evidently for mere ornament 
instead of defence. The front of the house is completely in the 
old style, with stone-shafted casements, a great bow window of 
heavy stonework, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, 
carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon 
tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just 
at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which sweeps down from 
the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or re- 
posing upon its borders, and swans were sailing majestically upon 
its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion, I 
called to mind FalstafFs encomium on Justice Shallow's, abode, 
and the affected indifference and real vanity of the latter. 

Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 

Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John : 
— marry, good air. 3 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in 
the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of stillness and solitude. 
The great iron gateway that opened into the courtyard was 

1 As You Like It, act ii. sc. 5. 

2 1558. 3 Henry IV., Tart II. act v. sc. 3. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 179 

locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about the place; 
the deer gazed quietly at me as 1 passed, being no longer harried 
by the moss-troopers ' of Stratford. The only sign of domestic 
life that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and 
stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefarious expedi- 
tion. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel 
crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as it shows 
that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers 
and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial power which 
was so strenuously manifested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way 
to a lateral portal which was the every-day entrance to the man- 
sion. I was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, 
who, with the civility and communicativeness of her order, 
showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has 
undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes and 
modes of living : there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the great 
hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor house, still retains 
much of the appearance it must have had in the days of Shake- 
speare. The ceiling is arched and lofty, and at one end is a 
gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies of 
the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country gentle- 
man, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide, hos- 
pitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, 
formerly the rallying place of winter festivity. On the opposite 
side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow window, with stone shafts, 
which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned in 
stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many 
generations, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to 
observe in the quarterings the three white luces by which the 
character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that of Justice 
Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the " Merry 
Wives of Windsor," where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff 

1 Marauders ; a term applied to men who troop or range over the mosses 
or bogs. 



180 IRVING. 

for having " beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into his 
lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his 
comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family 
pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be a 
caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. 

Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star-Chamber l 
matter of it : if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert 
Shallow, Esquire. 

Slender. In the county of Glocester, Justice of Peace, and coram.'* 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 3 

Slender. Ay, and ratolorum 3 too ; and a gentleman born, Master Parson ; 
who writes himself Armigero i in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, 
Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred 
years. 

Slender. All his successors, gone before him, hath done 't, and all his an- 
cestors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen "white hues 5 in their 
coat. . '. . 

Shallow. The Council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the Council hear a riot; there is no fear of Got 
in a riot. The Council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not 
to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. 

Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end 
it! 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir 
Peter Lely, 6 of one of the Lucy family,- a great beauty of the 
time of Charles II. The old housekeeper shook her head as 
she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had 

1 A court of civil and criminal jurisdiction at Westminster, so called because 
the roof of the chamber was decorated with golden stars. 

2 Latin " in the presence of," used in legal phraseology. Slender blun- 
deringly considers it an additional title to that of justice. 

3 Corruptions for citstos rotitlornm, " keeper of the records." 

4 Armiger ; a term used to designate one who had a right to armorial bear- 
ings. 

5 See note 2, p. 173. 

6 A famous Dutch artist (1618-80), court painter to Charles II. (1630-85) 
His portraits of the beauties of Charles's court are celebrated. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 181 

been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great 
portion of the family estate, among which was that part of the 
park where Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the deer. 
The lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family 
even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant 
dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and 
arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas 
Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part of 
Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindictive 
knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that it was his son ; 
the only likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his 
tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet of CharlecoL 
The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of 
the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet ; white shoes 
with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slen- 
der would say, " a cane-colored beard." x His lady is seated on 
the opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, 
and the children have a most venerable stiffness and formality of 
dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family group ; a 
hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, and one of the 
children holds a bow, — all intimating the knight's skill in hunt- 
ing, hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished 
gentleman in those days. 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had 
disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow- 
chair of carved oak in which the country squire of former days 
was wont to sway the scepter of empire over his rural domains, 
and in which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas 
sat enthroned in awful state when the recreant Shakespeare was 
brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own 
entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this very hall 
had been the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the 

1 Merry Wives of Windsor, act i. sc. 4. 



152 IRVING, 

morning after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the 
rural potentate, surrounded by his bodyguard of butler, pages, 
and blue-coated servingmen, with their badges ; while the luck- 
less culprit was brought in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the custody 
of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a 
rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious 
housemaids peeping from the half-opened doors ; while from the 
gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, 
eying the youthful prisoner with that pity " that dwells in woman- 
hood."— Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus 
trembling before the brief authority of a country squire and the 
sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes ; 
the theme of all tongues and ages ; the dictator to the human 
mind ; and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a cari- 
cature and a lampoon! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and 
I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the justice 
treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a last year's 
pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of carraways ; " x but I had 
already spent so much of the day in my rambling that I was 
obliged to give up any farther investigations. When about to 
take my leave, I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the house- 
keeper and butler that I would take some refreshment — an in- 
stance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we castle- 
hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it 
is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits 
from his ancestors ; for Shakespeare, even in his caricature, makes 
Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his press- 
ing instances to Falstaff : 

" By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night. ... I will not ex- 
cuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; there is 
no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused. . . . Some pigeons, Davy ; 
a couple of short-legged hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny 
kickshaws, tell William Cook." 2 

1 Henry IV., Part II. act v. sc. 3. 2 Ibid., act v. sc. I. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 183 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes 
and characters connected with it that I seemed to be actually 
living among them. Everything brought them, as it were, before 
my eyes; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost 
expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering 
forth his favorite ditty : 

" 'T is merry in ball, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Sbrove-tide! " l 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singu- 
lar gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic of his 
mind over the very face of nature; to give to things and places 
a charm and character not their own, and to turn this " work- 
ing-day world" 2 into a perfect fairyland. He is indeed the 
true enchanter whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but 
upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence 
of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. 
I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which 
tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been 
surrounded with fancied beings, with mere airy nothings, con- 
jured up by poetic power; yet which, to me, had all the charm 
of reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak ; had 
beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through 
the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once more present in 
spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the 
august Justice Shallow down to the gentle Master Slender and 
the sweet Anne Page. 3 Ten thousand honors and blessings on 
the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with inno- 
cent illusions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures 
in my chequered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely 
hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused 

l Henry IV., Part II. act v. sc. 3. 2 As You Like Tt, act i. sc. 3. 

3 One of the characters in the Merry Wives of Windsor. 



1 84 IRVING. 

to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, 
and could not but exult in the malediction which has kept his 
ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor 
could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty com- 
panionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogi- 
ums of a titled multitude? What would a crowded corner in 
Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, 
which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mauso- 
leum! The solicitude about the grave may be but the offspring 
of an overwrought sensibility ; but human nature is made up of 
foibles and prejudices; and its best and tenderest affections are 
mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought 
renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no 
applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his 
native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace 
and honor among his kindred and his early friends. And when 
the weary heart and failing head began to warn him that the 
evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the 
infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of 
the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard 
when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he 
cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have 
foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it covered 
with renown ; that his name should become the boast and glory 
of his native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded 
as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on 
which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one 
day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, 
to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb! 



THE SKETCH-HOOK. 185 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 

\_A Colloquy in Westminster Abbey.] 

" / know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time' s great periods shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muses' heavenly layes, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise." 

Dkummond of Hawthornden. 1 

THERE are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which 
we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek 
some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries, and build 
our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood, I was loitering 
about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, 2 enjoying 
that luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with 
the name of reflection ; when suddenly an irruption of mad- 
cap boys from Westminster School, 3 playing at football, broke 
in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted 
passages and moldering tombs echo with their merriment. I 
sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper 
into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers 
for admission to the library. He conducted me through a portal 
rich with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened 
upon a gloomy passage leading to the Chapter house and the 
chamber in which Doomsday Book 4 is deposited. Just within 
the passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger 

1 A Scottish poet (1 585-1649). 

2 See Note 1, p. 80. 

3 See Note 1, p. 81. 

4 A book containing the results of a survey of England ordered by William 
the Conqueror about 1086. It is now preserved in the Public Record Office 
in London. It was so called because, upon any difference, the parties received 
their doom from it. 



1 86 IRVING. 

applied a key ; it was double locked, and opened with some diffi- 
culty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark narrow 
staircase, and, passing through a second door, entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by 
massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a 
row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, 
and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. 
An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in 
his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a 
small gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. 
They consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were 
much more worn by time than use. In the center of the library 
was a solitary table with two or three books on it, an inkstand 
without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place 
seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It was 
buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up 
from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then 
the shouts of the schoolboys faintly swelling from the cloisters, 
and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along 
the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment 
grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away ; the bell ceased 
to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in 
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in 
a venerable elbowchair. Instead of reading, however, I was 
beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the 
place into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old 
volumes in their moldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, 
and apparently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but 
consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, 
like mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and 
molder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust 
aside with such indifference, cost some aching head — how many 
weary days! how many sleepless nights! How have their 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 187 

authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters ; 
shut themselves up from the face of man and the still more 
blessed face of nature ; and devoted themselves to painful 
research and intense reflection! And all for what? To occupy 
an inch of dusty shelf — to have the title of their works read 
now and then in a future age by some drowsy churchman or 
casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be lost, even 
to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. 
A mere temporary rumor, a local sound, like the tone of that 
bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for 
a moment — lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away, 
like a thing that was not! 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofitable 
speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I was thrum- 
ming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally 
loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, the little 
book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from a deep 
sleep; then a husky hem; and at length began to talk. At first 
its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a 
cobweb which some studious spider had woven across it ; and 
having probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the 
chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it 
became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent 
conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather 
quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, what, in the present 
day, would be deemed barbarous ; but I shall endeavor, as far 
as I am able, to render it in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — about 
merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such 
commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly 
that it had not been opened for more than two centuries; that 
the Dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes 
took down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, 
and then returned them to their shelves. " What a plague do 
they mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive 



iSS IRVING. 

was somewhat choleric, " what a plague do they mean by keeping 
several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a 
set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to 
be looked at now and then by the Dean? Books were written 
to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule 
passed that the Dean should pay each of us a visit at least once 
a year ; or, if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while 
turn loose the whole School of Westminster among us, that at 
any rate we may now and then have an airing." 

" Softly, my worthy friend," replied I ; " you are not aware 
how much better you are off than most books of your generation. 
By being stored away in this ancient library, you are like the 
treasured remains of those saints and monarchs which lie 
enshrined in the adjoining chapels ; while the remains of their 
contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, have 
long since returned to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, 
" I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an 
abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like 
other great contemporary works ; but here have I been clasped 
up for more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a 
prey to these worms that are playing the very vengeance with 
my intestines, if you had not by chance given me an opportunity 
of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to the 
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have 
been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are now 
well stricken in years : very few of your contemporaries can be 
at present in existence ; and those few owe their longevity to 
being immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to 
add, instead of likening to harems, you might more properly 
and gratefully have compared to those infirmaries attached to 
religious establishments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, 
and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they often 
endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age, You talk of 






THE SKETCH-BOOK. 189 

your contemporaries us if in circulation,— where do we meet 
with their works? What do we hear of Robert Groteste of 
Lincoln? 1 No one could have toiled harder than he for 
immortality. He is said to have written nearly two hundred 
volumes. He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate 
his name ; but, alas! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only 
a few fragments are scattered in various libraries, where they 
are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do we 
hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, 2 the historian, antiquary, philoso- 
pher, theologian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that 
he might shut himself up and write for posterity : but posterity 
never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, 3 
who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on 
the contempt of the world, which the world has revenged by 
forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, 4 styled 
the miracle of his age in classical composition? Of his three 
great heroic poems one is lost forever, excepting a mere frag- 
ment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious in 
literature ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have 
entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, 
the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life? Of 
William of Malmesbury ; 5 of Simeon of Durham ; 6 of Benedict 
of Peterborough ; 7 of John Hanvill of St. Albans; 8 of — " 

" Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, "how old 

1 Robert Grosseteste (about 1 175-1253), an English ecclesiastic who de- 
voted himself to the suppression of abuses in the church. 

2 Lived about 1 146-1220. 

3 Lived about 1084-1155. 

4 Lived about 1200. Considered one of the best mediaeval Latin poets in 
England. 

5 An English historian and monk, librarian of the monastery at Malmesbury 
(about 1095-1142). 

6 An English historian; died about 1130. 

7 Abbot of Peterborough (1177-93), an English historian and ecclesiastic. 

8 A monk of St. Albans about 1190. Author of a Latin poem entitled 
Architrenius. 



i go IRVING, 

do you think me? You are talking of authors that lived long 
before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that 
they in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be 
forgotten ; 1 but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the press 
of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. 2 I was written in my own 
native tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed ; and, 
indeed, I was considered a model of pure and elegant English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in such 
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty 
in rendering them into modern phraseology.) 

"I cry you mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; but it 
matters little ; almost all the writers of your time have likewise 
passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's publications are mere 
literary rarities among book collectors. The purity and stability 
of language, too,, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, 
have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even 
back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, 3 who 
wrote his history in rhymes of Mongrel Saxon. 4 Even now, 
many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English undented ' 5 as if 
the language ever sprang from a well or fountain head, and was 

1 Irving's Note. — In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had 
great delyte to endyte, and have many noble thinges fulfdde, but certes there- 
ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the French- 
men have as good a fantasye as we have in hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe. 
— Chaucer's Testament of Love. 

2 An English printer; died about 1535. He was an assistant of William 
Caxton, the first English printer. 

3 An English monk and historian who lived about 1275. 

4 Irving's Note. — Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes : " Afterwards, 
alio, by deligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and John Govvre, in the time ot 
Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke 
of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding 
that it never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Eliza- 
beth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned 
and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to 
their great praise and immortal commendation." 

5 See Note I, p. 159. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 191 

not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually 
subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this which has made 
English literature so extremely mutable, and the reputation buih 
upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to some- 
thing more permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, 
even thought must share the fate of everything else, and fall into 
decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity and exul- 
tation of the most popular writer. He finds the language in 
which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject 
to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He 
looks back and beholds the early authors of his country, once 
the favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A 
few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their 
merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the bookworm. 
And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which, 
however it may be admired in its day, and held up as a model 
of purity, will in the course of years grow antiquated and obsolete, 
until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its native land as 
an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions said to 
exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with some 
emotion, "when I contemplate a modern library, filled with new 
works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel dis- 
posed to sit down and weep ; like the good Xerxes, 1 when he 
surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military 
array, and reflected that in one hundred years not one of them 
would be in existence!" 

" Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, " I see how it 
is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old 
authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but Sir Philip 
Sydney's 'Arcadia,'- Sackville's 3 stately plays, and 'Mirror for 

1 King of Persia (519-465 B.C.) ; attempted the conquest of Greece, but 
was defeated at Salamis (480 B.C.) and returned to Asia Minor. 

2 See Note 3, p. 162. 

3 Thomas Sackville (1536-160S), an English poet. He became succes- 
sively Lord Buckhurst and Earl of Dorset. 



1 92 IRVING. 

Magistrates,' x or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ' unparalleled 
John Lyly.' " 2 

"There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers whom 
you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you 
were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir 
Philip Sydney's ' Arcadia,' the immortality of which was so fondly 
predicted by his admirers, 3 and which, in truth, is full of noble 
thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now 
scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity ; 
and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a 
court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely 
known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and 
wrangled at the time have likewise gone down, with all their 
writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding 
literature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep that 
it is only now and then that some industrious diver after frag- 
ments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of 
the curious. 

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability of 
language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the 
world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from 
analogy : we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vege- 
tables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short 
time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their successors. 
Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would be a griev- 

1 A compilation of poems begun in 1555. It consisted of biographies of 
men in high places who had come to violent ends. The stanzas which 
Sackville contributed to this collection far exceed the rest in value. 

2 See Note 2, p. 13. 

3 Irving's Note. — "Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his 
gentle witt, and the golden pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify unto 
the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the 
muses, the honey bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of 
morale and the intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tongue 
of Suada in the chamber, the spirite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of 
excellency in print." — Harvey's Pierce 's Supererogation. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 193 

ance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan with rank 
and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilder- 
ness. In like manner, the works of genius and learning decline 
and make way for subsequent productions. Language gradually 
varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have 
flourished their allotted time ; otherwise, the creative powers of 
genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be com- 
pletely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly 
there were some restraints on this excessive multiplication. 
Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and 
laborious operation ; they were written either on parchment, 
which was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make 
way for another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely 
perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, 
pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their 
cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, 
and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these circum- 
stances it may, in some measure, be owing that we have not been 
inundated by the intellect of antiquity ; that the fountains of 
thought have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned 
in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have 
put an end to all these restraints. They have made every one a 
writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and 
diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The consequences 
are alarming. The stream of literature has swollen into a torrent 
— augmented into a river— expanded into a sea. A few cen- 
turies since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great 
library ; but what would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, 
containing three or four hundred thousand volumes ; legions of 
authors at the same time busy ; and the press going on with fear- 
fully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number? 
Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among the 
progeny of the muse, now that she has become so prolific, I 
tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language 
will not be sufficient, Criticism may do much ; it increases 



194 IRVING. 

with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those salu- 
tary checks on population spoken of by economists. All possible 
encouragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of 
critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; let criticism 
do what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the 
world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will 
soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their 
names. Many a man of passable information at the present day 
reads scarcely anything but reviews, and before long a man of 
erudition will be little better than a mere walking catalogue." 

" My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive 
you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author 
who was making some noise just as I left the world. His repu- 
tation, however, was considered quite temporary. The learned 
shook their heads at him, for he was a poor half-educated varlet, 
that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been 
obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. 1 I think his name 
was Shakespeare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 

" On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man that 
the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the 
ordinary term of English literature. There rise authors now and 
then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because 
they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of 
human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes 
see on the banks of a stream, which, by their vast and deep 
roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on 
the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them 
from being swept away by the overflowing current, and hold up 
many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, to per- 
petuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom we behold, 
defying the encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the 
language and literature of his day, and giving duration to many 
an indifferent author merely from having flourished in his vicinity. 

1 See p. 172. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK. 195 

But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of 
age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commenta- 
tors, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the 
noble plant that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, 
until at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of laughter that 
had wellnigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. 
" Mighty well!" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, 
" mighty well! and so you would persuade me that the literature 
of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer! by a 
man without learning! by a poet, forsooth — a poet! " And here 
he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this* rudeness, which, 
however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less 
polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point. 

" Yes," resumed I positively, " a poet ; for of all writers he 
has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from the 
head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always 
understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose 
features are always the same, and always interesting. Prose 
writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their pages are crowded 
with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tedious- 
ness. But with the true poet everything is terse, touching, or 
brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest lan- 
guage. He illustrates them by everything that he sees most 
st liking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of 
human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, there- 
fore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of 
the age in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose 
within a small compass the wealth of the language — its , family 
jewels, which are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. 
The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and 
then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer ; 1 but the brilliancy 

1 Geoffrey Chaucer (1 340-1 400), the first great English poet, author of 
the Canterbury Tales. 



196 , IRVING. 

and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look 
back over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys 
of dullness, filled with monkish legends and academical contro- 
versies! What bogs of theological speculations; what dreary 
wastes of metaphysics! Here and there only do we behold the 
heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons on their widely- 
separated heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical intelli- 
gence from age to age." 1 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets 
uf the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to 
turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that 
it was time to close the library. I sought to have a parting- 
word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent ; the 
clasps were closed ; and it looked perfectly unconscious of all 
that had passed. I have been to the library two or three times 
since, and have endeavored to draw it into further conversation, 
but in vain : arid whether all this rambling colloquy actually took 
place, or whether it was another of those odd daydreams to 
which I am subject, I have never to this moment been able to 
discover. 

1 Irving's Note. — 

" Thorow 2 earth and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe: 
And featly 3 nyps the worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu anil the vice 

Of every wight alyve; 
The honey comb that bee doth make, 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drops from poet's head ; 
Which doth surmount our common talke, 

As farre as dross doth lead." 

Churchyard.^ 

2 Through. 3 Deftly. 

4 Thomas Churchyard (1 520-1604), an English poet, author of many 
miscellaneous works. 



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Maps, complete glossaries, and indexes adapt the 
manuals for convenient use in schools, libraries, or art 
ojalleries. 



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ARNOLD'S SOHRAB AND RUSTUM . 

BURKE'S SPEECH ON CONCILIATION 
BURNS'S POEMS— Selections . 
BYRON'S POEMS— Selections . 
CARLYLE'S ESSAY ON ROBERT BURNS 
CHAUCER'S PROLOGUE AND KNIGHTE'S TALE 
COLERIDGE'S RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 
COOPER'S PILOT ....... 

DEFOE". HISTORY OF THE PLAGUE IN LONDON 
DE QUINCSY'S REVOLT OF THE TARTARS 
DRYDEN'S PALAMON AND ARCITE . 
EMERSON'S AMERICAN SCHOLAR, SELF-RELIANCE, 

SATION 

FRANKLIN'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY .... 
GEORGE ELIOT'S SILAS MARNER 
GOLDSMITH'S VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 

GRAY'S POEMS— Selections 

IRVING'S SKETCH-BOOK— Selections . 

IRVING'S TALES OF A TRAVELER 

MACAULAY'S SECOND ESSAY ON CHATHAM 

MACAULAY'S ESSAY ON MILTON 

MACAULAY'S ESSAY ON ADDISON . 

MACAULAY'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON 

MILTON'S L'ALLEGRO, IL PENSEROSO, COMUS, LYCIDAS 

MILTON'S PARADISE LOST— Books I and II . 

POPE'S HOMI LI'S ILIAD— Books I, VI, XXII, XXIV 

POPE'S RAPE OF THE LOCK and ESSAY ON MAN 

SCOTT'S 1VANHOE 

SCOTT'S MAPMiON 

SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE 

SCOTT'S THE ABBOTT 

SCOTT'S WOODSTuCK 

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SHAKESPEARE'S MERCHANT OF VENICE . 

SHAKESPEARE'S MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 

SHAKESPEARE'S AS YOU LIKE IT 

SHAKESPEARE'S MACBETH . 

SH.vKESPEARE'S HAMLET . 

SIR ROGER DE COVER! FY PAPERS 

SOUTHEY'S LIFE OF NELSON 

TENNYSON'S PRINCESS 

TENNYSON'S IDYLLS OF THE KING— Selections 

WEBSTER'S BUNKER HILL ORATIONS 

WORDSWORTH'S "OEMS— Selections . 



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